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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593911">Murmurations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maegykie/pseuds/Maegykie'>Maegykie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione's parents, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Introspection, Love, Male-Female Friendship, Memories, Memory Loss, Monica Wilkins - Freeform, POV Hermione Granger, POV Multiple, POV Severus Snape, References to Illness, Romance, Slow Burn, Wendell Wilkins - Freeform, relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:28:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>124,524</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maegykie/pseuds/Maegykie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A slow-burning, sometimes flickering, HG/SS tale. Just your usual type of thing.</p><p>She feels it in his hand as it brushes a stray curl behind her ear, in his tone, and his lingering kiss. In the smile he saves just for her. She thinks, perhaps, he loves her, even if he does refuse say it.</p><p>Starts during Hermione’s “eighth” year at Hogwarts and meanders through a lifetime.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Severus Snape</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>360</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sugar Quills</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He is in darkness. Spasmodic breaths draw fire into his lungs; panicked gasps become laboured drags upon the stale air. He has a vague awareness of another sensation, like hoarfrost creeping through his veins. His muscles scream, his limbs are leaden. The room is full of his soundless cries. There is the taste and smell of something metallic; it is beyond his comprehension by this point that this is his own blood, even as it drains from the wound in his neck and seeps across his torso, across the bare wooden floorboards. Even as his fingertips make last, feeble grasps at the puckered, torn skin near his collar.</p><p> </p><p>He is overcome by the desire to want to live and the terrible knowledge that such an ambition is futile. Then, as if it is this thought which has manifested it, he is enveloped in a gentle warmth. He senses that he shouldn’t, but he welcomes it. Perhaps it is time to sleep now, he thinks. He <em>is</em> dreadfully tired after all, has been dreadfully tired now for ever such a long time. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt if he just closed his eyes, allowed himself, just this once, to drift off. No one would mind. Would anyone even notice?</p><p> </p><p>He is drowning and then there is nothing.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione sucked the end of the sugar quill, savouring the sickly-sweet taste that immediately transported her back to her first time on The Hogwarts Express, to the first time she had ever tried a sugar quill.</p><p> </p><p>She had not been the type of child who craved sugar, perhaps some early conditioning by her dentist parents had put paid to that, but, in her desperation to absorb every element of this new world she suddenly found herself a part of, she had treat herself to a sugar quill from the trolley lady during her first trip to Hogwarts. It had melted against her tongue with a gentle fizz, the taste reminiscent of candy floss and cherry drops. It had felt a little illicit, knowing that her parents would not approve, especially not before lunch, but from that moment on, the sugar quill had been Hermione’s favourite sweet; the little treat she would give herself for mastering a problematic charm or potion, transfiguring a reluctant object, or receiving top marks on an essay she had worked particularly hard on. She recalled the heady anticipation of that first journey, seeing and experiencing the things she had read about in <em>Hogwarts, A History</em>, which until then had still seemed like a work of fiction.</p><p> </p><p>Now, seven years later, she chased the comforting nostalgia of the sugar quill because being back on the train didn’t feel right at all. She smiled at the naivety of eleven-year-old Hermione. Hogwarts was not what it should have been. An updated edition of <em>Hogwarts, A History</em> was being written, and her name would be in its pages. Eleven-year-old Hermione would have been thrilled at this prospect; eighteen-year-old Hermione only wished it was for different reasons</p><p> </p><p>The current journey was at once familiar and unsettling. She was alone in the compartment; just her, the sugar quill, and the memories. Ginny and Luna where somewhere, she’d left them playing exploding snap with the other seventh years. They had been laughing and joking almost – <em>almost</em> – as if everything was normal, and Hermione hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, so had retired to another compartment on her own.</p><p> </p><p>She reached the nib of the sugar quill and crunched it between her teeth. Increasingly, <em>alone</em> seemed to suit her better. She had made some half-hearted efforts to convince Ron and Harry to return to school with her, knowing that she could not compete with the lure of the Auror Department. For Harry, especially, she was glad they had some purposeful role, something that would keep his mind occupied, something that would make him feel like he was giving back to all those who had given him so much, had given him their lives. ‘Tidying up loose ends,’ Harry had called it, beaming upon his return from the meeting with Kingsley where he’d been offered the job, ‘sorting out unfinished business!’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had unfinished business of her own.</p><p> </p><p>She leant her head against the window, feeling the rattle of the train as it sped through endless green fields, the sky turning inky as the sun settled beyond the hills. The scenery was becoming a little more rugged and wild and she suspected they might have crossed into Scotland, might almost be there. She closed her eyes and, still with the taste of the sugar quill in her mouth, remembered the first time she had been welcomed by the castle.</p><p> </p><p>It had always seemed somewhat sentient, a warm embrace as you entered through the main doors, an immediate familiarity that, in the absence of parents, meant safety. But that was before. During the battle it had thrummed with anger, an almost effervescent fury. She wondered what it would mean to her now, to walk through those doors into the hall where she had seen so many of her friends laid out dead.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, you could <em>almost</em> pretend as if everything was normal but a rational, intelligent mind like Hermione’s would always betray her in the end. She knew the truth: that nothing would ever be the same again.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>The Sorting Ceremony and Welcome Feast had been relatively subdued affairs. The Great Hall had felt cavernous, empty seats at all four house and the teachers’ tables grim reminders of those who were missing. Hermione had noted similar reminders in other areas of the castle and grounds; the most rudimentary repairs had been completed, to make it habitable for those students returning for the new school year, but patchworks of new bricks, freshly painted doors, and blackened, soot-stained tendrils rising out of blown out window-frames and creeping up the ramparts, told stories of what the castle had seen.</p><p> </p><p>Most shocking though, had been the Thestrals. Hermione supposed she ought to have been better prepared, but thoughts of Thestrals hadn’t even crossed her mind.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are they beautiful or hideous?’ Ginny had asked, reaching out a tentative hand but stopping short of stroking the Thestral’s snout.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione didn’t know. She had been similarly both beguiled and repulsed. She couldn’t bear to look at them or be reminded of why she could now see them. She had shaken her head, strode past Ginny and jumped up onto the carriage, throwing herself unceremoniously onto one of its seats.</p><p> </p><p>After McGonagall’s speech, expounding the importance of unity, absolution, and remembrance, Hermione had been eager to retire back to the dormitory she shared with just Ginny and another seventh year, Talia Murray, who Ginny knew well and Hermione knew vaguely. As great sheets of rain began to blow in over the lake, she sat on the windowsill and looked out over the grounds far below. She had been attempting to read <em>I Capture the Castle</em>, her comfort read, but it currently lay forgotten beside her as she couldn’t concentrate, her mind so consumed, as it was, by ghosts. Crookshanks leapt up into her lap and Hermione stroked him absently, grateful for his reassuring warmth.</p><p> </p><p>A sigh, issued by Ginny, who had just exited the bathroom in her pyjamas, washbag in hand, disturbed Hermione’s reverie a few moments later. ‘Are you alright?’ Ginny asked, eying Hermione concernedly. ‘You’ve been quiet.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It doesn’t <em>feel</em> right, does it Gin?’</p><p> </p><p>Ginny appeared to weigh this up, tossing the washbag into her trunk and plumping her pillows. ‘It doesn’t feel <em>the same</em>, if that’s what you mean.’ She pulled back the covers and climbed in her bed.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know what I expected, certainly not that it would feel the <em>same</em>, but also… not that it would feel quite so… <em>uncanny</em>, either.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think, perhaps, once we’re back in lessons, have a routine, it might feel more… <em>normal</em>, at the very least.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re probably right,’ Hermione said, thoroughly unconvinced but feigning a more jovial tone. She brought Crookshanks over to her own bed, where he curled up at the bottom of her mattress, and climbed between the sheets herself. ‘We just have to get through the next year.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘We have Potions and Herbology together,’ Ginny pointed out on the first morning of classes as they inspected their new timetables over bowls of Pixie Puffs. ‘That should be fun!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ Hermione agreed.</p><p> </p><p>In the next moment, the delivery owls had swooped into the hall. A letter dropped onto the table next to Ginny. ‘From Harry,’ she said, picking it up and tearing off the envelope. She read through it with an enigmatic smile on her face. ‘Nothing from Ron?’ she asked Hermione when she’d finished.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh. No,’ Hermione said. She hadn’t exactly been expecting anything.</p><p> </p><p>‘He can be so hopeless sometimes,’ Ginny admonished him in his absence. ‘I’ll write to him and tell him to buck his ideas up.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s fine,’ Hermione said, ‘leave it. I should get to Transfigurations. I’ll see you at lunch.’</p><p> </p><p>She hoisted her satchel onto her shoulder and, head down, made her way to her first class.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>There are lucid moments in which he can hear snatches of conversations taking place very far away. They sound as if they are echoing down a long tunnel and he does not recognise the voices, or maybe he does, he sometimes thinks.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘… substantial damage to the oesophageal tissue… difficult to say the extent to which the larynx has been effected while ever he’s unconscious… cognitive functioning appears normal but his heart has been put under incredible strain from the poison… in this situation, what would you recommend?’</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It is just a string of meaningless words and phrases and although he is vaguely aware that these voices are talking about him, he cannot understand why. He is only asleep, just resting his eyes for a little while.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p><em>Ennui</em> is the word that drifts into Hermione’s mind when she tries to deduce how she feels. <em>Malaise, unease, dissatisfaction. </em>Any of them fit, but not perfectly. She searches for the right word because she thinks if she finds it, she might overcome it. Hermione likes to understand things.</p><p> </p><p>‘Miss Granger, a word please,’ Professor McGonagall says to Hermione, accosting her after her final lesson one afternoon at the beginning of October and leading her into an empty classroom.</p><p> </p><p>September had simultaneously flown and dragged by. The amount of work given to them in preparation for their NEWTs was welcome insofar as it provided a distraction from the constant gnawing feeling that nothing was quite right, but Hermione’s longing to be done with Hogwarts once and for all was causing time to drift sedately.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall leant against a desk and scrutinised Hermione concernedly for a moment before continuing. ‘I have to apologise,’ she said eventually. ‘I had been meaning to catch up with you earlier in the term. How are you?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione considered the question. ‘Fine,’ she replied, at length, which was, perhaps, not entirely untrue.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall looked skeptical. ‘Professor Flitwick said you’ve seemed somewhat distracted. That is… to be expected, I suppose.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t be silly! It’s been an awful lot to come to terms with. There is <em>still</em> an awful lot to come to terms with… and for you, perhaps more than others…’</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall’s tone invited Hermione to elaborate on this but as Hermione was still having difficulties articulating her feelings to herself, she certainly didn’t feel able to speak them out loud. ‘Thank you, Professor,’ she murmured instead, hoping she didn’t sound ungrateful.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall nodded curtly. ‘Please promise me you will talk to someone if you’re struggling with… <em>anything</em>. My office is always open to you but I appreciate you may have others you would prefer to go to. In the meantime, I would like to offer you something a little more practical. The letter you wrote to me in the summer mentioned your intentions to enter onto the Healer’s training program at St. Mungo’s after your NEWTs. That is still your plan?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, I think so, Professor.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Excellent… admirable, even. It is a difficult program to get accepted onto, of course - though I shouldn’t think you will struggle to achieve the required grades - and arduous once you are accepted – six years of intense theory and practice,’ she paused, issuing Hermione a small, encouraging smile. ‘I have given some thought to your request to help Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing this year.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, yes? I just thought the experience might help me stand out on my application,’ Hermione explained.</p><p> </p><p>‘I think there are other reasons you might stand out.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s my worry,’ Hermione said, pointedly, chewing her bottom lip. ‘Getting a place on the program through nepotism wouldn’t sit right with me. If I don’t earn it, it’s meaningless.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Quite,’ the headmistress agreed. ‘Then you should go and speak with Madam Pomfrey.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you, Professor.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And when it comes time to make your application, write your covering letter, references etcetera, I would be more than happy to assist.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you, Professor.’</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall chuckled then. ‘You can stop thanking me, Miss Granger. After all, it is probably <em>I </em>that should be thanking <em>you</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Lassitude, languor, lethargy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione approached the hospital wing the next evening after dinner and was about to push open the frosted-glass doors when two figures, clad in lime-green robes, come bustling through them. She recognised them instantly as Healers, deep in conversation as they turn down the corridor and moved off hurriedly in the direction of, presumably, McGonagall’s office. Hermione watched them leave, wondering, fleetingly, how serious a malady a student could have suffered for Pomfrey not to be able to deal with it alone.</p><p> </p><p>Once the Healers rounded the corner at the end of the corridor Hermione herself turned back to the doors and pushed them open to find the hospital wing illuminated by the warm glow of several lanterns. At first the room seemed deserted, but she senses she is not alone. She moves along the central aisle, between the two rows of empty beds, the tapping of her footsteps disturbing the silence. Pomfrey’s little office sits at the back of the infirmary with a large glass window giving her a good view of her patients, but the lights are off within and it is clear Pomfrey isn’t there.</p><p> </p><p>It is as Hermione turns to leave that she notices, behind a stone column to her right, a bed with a fabric partition drawn partially around it. From beyond the curtains the distinctive <em>huff-puff-hiss </em>of some type of medical apparatus sounds out. It does cross her mind that she might find Pomfrey behind the curtains, tending to whoever occupies the bed, but that is not what pulls Hermione’s legs forwards.</p><p> </p><p>By some strange instinct, a part of her seems to know what – or rather who – lies beyond the partition. As she draws closer she reaches out, the fabric of the curtain thick and rough between her fingers. She hesitates for just a moment longer, casting a final glance back down the room to the entrance, and then draws back the curtains before she can stop herself.</p><p> </p><p>There he is.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t make any sense that he should be here. <em>Not least because you saw him die</em>, her brain screams. Indeed, the last time she had seen Severus Snape was in those desperate moments as his memories were decanted into the little glass phial as he lay on the floor of The Shrieking Shack all those months ago. She had glanced back, one last time, as Harry, Ron, and she had moved out of the room, to see the dark – black, in the moonlight – puddle of blood spreading across the exposed floorboards. <em>He had died.</em> She had learned along with everyone else that Snape had been acting as a double-agent and what had motivated this. And then she had heard, of course, in the aftermath of the battle, that when they (who “they” were, she didn’t know) had gone to retrieve Snape’s body, it had been to find him with the slightest of pulses. He had not been dead after all, it seemed. What had followed from there she had been too pre-occupied with other things to pay attention to.</p><p> </p><p>Now he lay, wraith-like, on his back in the bed. The starchy covers are pulled up over his chest, but she can make out the gauze covering his neck wound, the stain of a treacle-coloured discharge oozing through it. His breaths come in short rasps, as if each inhalation is an effort. The continual <em>huff-puff-hiss </em>is emitted from a pump-like machine beside the bed. Various tubes run out of it but the main one is connected to the mask over Snape’s face, out of which drifts a silvery mist. Beneath it his expression is tranquil and without his customary scowl she realises how young he really is. She realises he can’t even be forty yet. There is a cannula in his left hand, which draws Hermione’s attention first to the faded Dark Mark on his left wrist, and secondly to the drip suspended above the bed. Hermione recognises that it is filled with a blood replenishing potion.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello, Professor Snape,’ she whispered, ‘so it’s true, you <em>are</em> alive?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Can I help you?’ a voice sounded suddenly from behind her. It was Madam Pomfrey.</p><p> </p><p>‘I… I am so sorry… I hadn’t expected,’ Hermione stammered, backing away from Snape’s bed, knocking into a medical supplies trolley with her hip and sending its contents scattering across the stone floor. ‘Ouch! Shit, sorry!’ she murmured, bending to pick up the fallen gauzes, bottled salves, and, thankfully unbroken, potions phials.</p><p> </p><p>‘Five points from Gryffindor for language, Miss Granger,’ Pomfrey said, issuing her a disapproving look as she bustled past her to attend to her patient. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, checking Snape’s temperature with a frown and wiping his clammy brow with a cool, damp cloth.</p><p> </p><p>‘I…,’ Hermione began, but hesitated, both mesmerised and perturbed by Pomfrey’s gentle ministrations towards Snape.</p><p> </p><p>She was deft and professional, but there was a tenderness there that made Hermione realise Snape wasn’t just another patient; it was a friend Pomfrey was tending to. Her expression was one of mingled consternation and fondness. Hermione watched as she pulled down the sheets covering Snape’s chest, tutting as she ran a finger over the area where the wound had leaked through the gauze. ‘No better,’ the medi-witch murmured at Snape, shaking her head before looking back up at Hermione. ‘Well?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Professor Snape…’ Hermione said at length, ‘why is he here?’</p><p> </p><p>Pomfrey looked at her quite sternly. ‘Why shouldn’t he be? If it wasn’t obvious, Miss Granger, he is very unwell and this <em>is</em> a hospital.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione sighed and pulled herself together. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I just meant… I didn’t know what had come of him. I assumed St. Mungo’s?’</p><p> </p><p>Pomfrey looked back down at Snape with a sigh. ‘He’s better off here,’ she said quietly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Can I ask how he is?’ Hermione ventured.</p><p> </p><p>Pomfrey shook her head sadly. ‘Stable. At least for the moment. We’ve had a difficult few months.’ There was a short silence, disturbed only by the relentless <em>huff-puff-hiss </em>of the machine, as both Hermione and Pomfrey looked down at Snape, each with a frown, although they likely frowned for different reasons. ‘Anyway,’ Pomfrey said after a moment, looking up at Hermione and her tone warmer now, ‘Severus won’t be your concern if you’re going to be helping me out in the hospital wing this year. I trust that’s why you’re actually here?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione also finally tore her gaze away from Snape. ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, coming back to her senses.</p><p> </p><p>‘Professor McGonagall spoke to me about you apprenticing,’ Pomfrey continued, ‘although that’s a rather grand term for what I could actually offer you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, it’s just experience I’d like, for the Healer program. I appreciate there won’t be a lot I can do practically, but I’m keen to see how things work and I can clean, do stock takes, whatever you need, really!’</p><p> </p><p>Pomfrey studied her for a long moment. ‘I am not typically in the habit of taking on apprentices,’ she said, ‘I can be rather set in my ways, you will find, and I have high standards. But I understand you’re a very capable witch and I am willing to make an exception for this reason and this reason alone. I will see you on Saturday morning.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Ron writes some weeks later towards the end of mid-October. Six weeks since they last saw each other, when they had argued maniacally. Hermione isn’t sure where the argument has left the status of their relationship, but time apart has offered her some perspective and she suspects, in fact, she hadn’t been sure how she felt about their relationship for a long time before that.</p><p> </p><p>She sits alone in the common room, late after a shift on the hospital wing, reading his letter by candle light.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Hermione,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>How are you? How’s Hogwarts?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Auror training is fine, lots of early mornings, which you know aren’t really my thing! We’ve managed to catch up with quite a few old Death Eaters already. It makes me so angry listening to them trying wheedle their way out of what they’ve done or pretend they have don’t remember. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Living in London is an experience! We go out in Diagon Alley on the weekends and we get a bit of VIP treatment because, well, because we’re Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy this a little bit but I go back to The Burrow most Sundays and Mum keeps me in check!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Harry and I won’t be working on the Hogsmeade weekend just before Christmas. I think Harry is going to mention it to Ginny too, but we’d both love to see you. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I hope you’re not working too hard (although, I imagine I’m wasting my breath (or ink) with that one!). </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hopefully see you soon. Love, Ron.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>No apology, she notes. But then, perhaps the apology should come from her? There are also no clues as to what <em>he</em> considers the status of their relationship to be either. The letter is short, but his handwriting is neat, suggesting he has taken time over it. Perhaps he was as much at a loss as to what to say as she is. She also senses some disquiet in him. His description of Auror training is hardly gushing. She frowns at this; she <em>does</em> want him to be happy.</p><p> </p><p>She takes out a sheet of blank parchment to reply, her quill hovering over it for a moment while she thinks carefully about what she wants to say and how she wants to say it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Dear Ron,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hogwarts isn’t the same…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She pauses, dipping her quill back in the inkwell. She could leave the sentence there but doesn’t want to provoke worry or questions. She adds;</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>… without you…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>But that doesn’t seem quite right either. He could read something into that that isn’t there; she doesn’t want to give him the impression that she is in any way reliant on him for a sense of comfort. She places the quill back to the parchment and continues;</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…and Harry. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That’s better. Less personal, but still friendly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It’s quieter, for one thing! There have been no mysteries with the new Defense teacher; no one has tried to poison or hex anyone, and there isn’t an impending sense that Death Eaters might infiltrate the castle at any moment!</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Then some things never change. Quidditch rivalries are as impassioned as ever (Gryffindor lost their first match against Ravenclaw and Ginny’s had them out practicing almost every night since), Peeves remains a nightmare, and Hagrid’s rock cakes are as inedible as ever. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>NEWTs are a lot of work, of course, but a means to an end. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey have arranged for me to do some work in the hospital wing in preparation for the Healer program. I’ve done a few shifts so far, just shadowing Madam Pomfrey, really, but I’m learning a lot and really enjoying it. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>She wonders whether she should mention Snape but decides against it. She doesn’t really have anything to say about him, other than that he is <em>there</em>, in the hospital wing, because Pomfrey has kept him shrouded behind those course white partitions every time Hermione has been there since that first time. She hears the <em>huff-puff-hiss</em> of the machine beside his bed, but that is the only indication that he is still there.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I’d…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Love to? No. Too much.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>… definitely be up for meeting up at Hogsmeade in December. It’ll be nice to see you both and get out of the castle for a bit. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I hope you’re resting too. I can’t imagine how emotionally and physically draining it must be doing what you’re doing, day in, day out.  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>She re-reads her own letter and then Ron’s a few times. They don’t read like letters between… partners, lovers, boyfriend and girlfriend? Whatever they’re supposed to be. They’re more like letters between new acquaintances.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Best wishes, Hermione.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Wednesday afternoons, when she has a free double period, and all day Saturday, Hermione helps in the hospital wing. Over the past few weeks Pomfrey had begun to give Hermione additional responsibilities – nothing too taxing, just applying salves and dressings and such like, and Hermione found she was good with the patients.</p><p> </p><p>‘Three times in one week we’ve seen you in here with a potions-related injury, Bernard. You need to take more care,’ Hermione gently admonished a first year as she tucked in the end of a bandage she wrapped around his scalded hand. ‘There’ll be no lasting damage… this time,’ she warned, with a smile. ‘Now get back to class!’ The first year beamed at her, hopped off the bed, and disappeared out of the hospital wing.</p><p> </p><p>Pomfrey can be surprisingly critical of Hermione’s work and limited with her praise, but she is a good teacher. She shows Hermione her way around the stock room, how to fold hospital corners with the bedsheets, and spells to thoroughly disinfect the equipment they use.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione also grows accustomed to the sounds of the infirmary, the creak of bed springs, the groan of the plumbing that keeps the temperature high, and the rattle of pill bottles. <em>The perpetual </em>huff-puff-hiss<em> of the breathing apparatus beyond the curtains.</em></p><p> </p><p>It is for this reason that the new noise sounds so incongruous; a low moaning and the sound of clanking metal. At first it is sporadic, and she thinks nothing of it, then in the next moment it has restarted in earnest. Something clatters to the floor and suddenly there is another noise; wretched, rasping breaths that sound almost painful.</p><p> </p><p>She springs forwards and draws back the curtains around Snape’s bed to observe his body both rigid and yet flailing. The mattress springs and metal frame of the bed creak loudly as he fits and seizes, his limbs jerking oddly and repulsively. He reminds Hermione of the spider Mad-Eye had performed the Cruciatus curse on back in fourth year. The mask which delivers his oxygen is torn from his face, on the floor, and blood streams from his nose and from beneath his still closed eyes, down his chin, and onto the bedsheets. Crimson blossoms appears on the gauze at his chest, seeping up from the wound beneath and quickly saturating the dressing.</p><p> </p><p><em>There is so much blood; he is going to bleed to death.</em> These are the thoughts that flash through Hermione’s mind in a instance. It is immediately obvious, even at this elementary stage in her training. And she finds that she knows what to do. Where she might have thought she would have frozen, she is spurred to action.</p><p> </p><p>She calls for Pomfrey, who had been doing paperwork in her office, then rushes to Snape’s side. The beds are adjustable and she pulls him into a sitting position to stop the blood from his nose going back down his throat and choking him. She quickly removes the bloodied gauze on his neck wound and sees for the first time the damage beneath, sees the exposed muscle, sinew, and tissue that was previously concealed. She takes a steadying breath to stop herself from being sick. The bed sheets are the only thing on hand big enough to use to try and stem the flow of blood, so she bundles them up and presses them against the wound.</p><p> </p><p>Pomfrey is there then, adjusting the drip of blood replenishing potion so it flows more quickly. ‘That’s good, keep a firm pressure applied,’ she instructs Hermione with calmness. Hermione does as she is told. Next, Pomfrey is dousing cotton wool in the salve from the medical supplies trolley and packing Snape’s not insubstantial nose with it; Hermione watches in awe as more cotton wool than you would think possible is deposited firmly in his nasal cavities. The medi-witch has her wand out and mutters a low ‘apapneo’ to clear any blockages in Snape’s throat. He coughs and wheezes and thick clots of coagulated blood fly across the room. After this he seems calmer; he continues to writhe a little and though his eyes remain closed there is a pained expression on his face, his teeth grinding together, but he is no longer convulsing. Next, Pomfrey is soaking more gauze in the salve. ‘When I say, I want you to remove the bedsheets. I will place the gauze over the wound and then apply bandages so that they’re kept firmly in place. Ready? Go.’ Hermione pulls the sheets away and throws them to the floor. Blood pours from Snape’s neck again but Pomfrey is quick, stemming it with the gauze and then wrapping the bandages across his chest, over his shoulder, and back around under his armpit and then covering his neck. Slowly she reclines him back so he is laid flat again.</p><p> </p><p>It is only at this point that Hermione remembers to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s an effect of the venom,’ Pomfrey explains some time later as she, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall look down at Snape’s sleeping figure. ‘It’s stopping his blood for clotting. If his blood pressure increases, he starts bleeding out, and then his body goes into shock and is wracked by these convulsions.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I remember when Arthur Weasley was bitten by Nagini,’ Hermione said, her voice still shaky. ‘They tried all sorts.’</p><p> </p><p>‘There <em>is</em> an unfortunate irony in the fact that he is probably the one wizard capable of brewing a healing potion with sufficient efficacy to heal his wounds and yet he is the one incapacitated in this way. Anyway, the combination of the dittany-laced salve and the blood replenishing potion keep him stable for the most part and meanwhile the Healers are working on an anti-venom.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s why they’re here sometimes?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes. They drop in a few times a month to prod and poke at him and force-feed him their latest concoction – none of which have been successful to date,’ McGonagall explains.</p><p> </p><p>‘He would hate the indignity of all this,’ Pomfrey sighs. ‘I wish I could help him more myself but…’ she trails off and leaves Hermione in no doubt as to the severity of the situation. She is still unaccustomed to the fondness and concern with which the teachers talk about Snape, though perhaps it is beginning to make sense to her.</p><p> </p><p>‘He seems settled now, Poppy,’ McGonagall reassures her colleague with a hand on her shoulder. ‘And it is late. Perhaps we should get a cup of tea. Calm our nerves before bed.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, yes,’ Pomfrey agrees.</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s still a bit of cleaning up to do,’ Hermione says, gesturing at the bloodied bedsheets and discarded bandages. ‘I don’t mind staying on for a little while to do it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you sure?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course.’</p><p> </p><p>Issuing Hermione a grateful smile, McGonagall leads Pomfrey towards the doors. ‘Miss Granger?’ the aging matron says, turning back to her. ‘You did well today.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you,’ she breaths. She does feel a certain pride in how she responded in the moment, but the disconcertment of what she witnessed currently overrides this. The doors close behind McGonagall and Pomfrey as they finally leave.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione scourgyfied the soiled bedsheets and folded them neatly before placing them back with the other clean linens in the store cupboard. She discarded the bandages, salve bottles, syringes, and other items they had used to save Snape. When she is finished she realises how emotionally exhausted she is but feels herself drawn to his bedside again. He looks much as he usually does now; he could be simply sleeping, dreaming of pleasant things. She hopes he is.</p><p> </p><p>‘You gave us quite a scare today, Professor,’ she tells him. It feels awkward to talk to him like this, and although she knows the sentiment she wants to convey, she struggles to do it in anything other than bland clichés. She is sure he would be thoroughly unimpressed by this if he had the capacity to be unimpressed by anything. She frowns, struggling to find the words, and then she resorts to what she knows best; a good book. She rummages at the bottom of her satchel and pulls out <em>I Capture the Castle </em>and trusty sugar quill, which she tears the paper off of and pops in her mouth. ‘I always find, after a bad day, a good book can make the world of difference. Would you like me to read aloud to you, Professor? Alright then…’</p><p> </p><p>It is late when her eyes begin to droop and she concludes the chapter she has reached. She closed the book and inspected Snape. He hadn’t moved, apart from the regular up and down of his chest beneath the bed sheets. If he had been able to hear her reading, he gave no indication that that was the case.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>After that night her classes become mere distractions from the hospital wing; anything that prevents her from being there is an inconvenience. When she is not there, she thinks of little else, and it is not just a newfound passion for Healing that attracts her, she knows. It is <em>him</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She begins spending increasing amounts of time with him. Pomfrey allows her to do some of Snape’s cares; changing his bandages and applying the salve to his wounds. Simple things, all completed under Pomfrey’s watchful eye. She isn’t included when the Healers visit, much to her chagrin, but she catches snippets of their conversation through the curtains as she folds sheets nearby: <em>‘…unsustainable levels of blood loss… platelet count still undesirably low… significant trauma to the blood vessels caused by the venom… apologies, Poppy, that our efforts have again been unsuccessful…’</em></p><p> </p><p>But Pomfrey doesn’t know, that after she retires to bed each night, Hermione stays with him. She begins to worry that he might have another turn if she isn’t with him, as if her presence alone is enough to stave off another attack.</p><p> </p><p>She sits by his bed to do her homework, telling him she doesn’t know why Slughorn agreed to stay on and teach Potions when he clearly has no interest in it (‘At least I learned something when you taught it,’ she tells him, ‘even if you were a nasty piece of work’) and bemoaning the amount of work that’s expected of them (‘You’d probably be in full agreement with the regime’). Maybe the frown lines between his brows intensifies a bit, but she couldn’t say for sure.</p><p> </p><p>At the beginning of each visit she asks him how he has been since she last saw him and he says nothing. He remains unchanged with the exception of his stubbly chin, which presents as in varying degrees of needing a shave, which is, decidedly, Pomfrey’s territory. Hermione leans close to him and tells him she thinks he is a looking a little perkier today, that his wounds are drying out somewhat and there is no sign of infection. ‘That’s all good news, Professor. Maybe it means you can come back to us soon,’ she encourages him.</p><p> </p><p>There are other things she muses to him about as well. In his silence, Snape is the perfect confidante. He is her secret keeper, of sorts. She finds she can tell <em>him</em> how she feels. ‘<em>Ennui</em> is certainly no longer the right word,’ she ponders, bouncing around new adjectives that might fit. He says nothing. ‘I rather suspect that I love him, I am just not <em>in</em> love with him,’ she explains. He says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>And, of course, she continues to read to him. By the middle of December they’ve finished <em>I Capture the Castle </em>and are nearing the end of <em>Jane Eyre</em>. ‘What would you like to read next?’ she asks him. He says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Over time, although who knows how much, there are other things that tug at his consciousness. Every now and again he hears a low, melodic sound. At first it is just a hum, but in time it becomes clearer. It is one voice, which dances and trips over the words it speaks. He tries to focus on the story it tells, for it is a story, he can tell even though the words are indecipherable. It’s in the tone, the passion of her voice. <em>Her</em> voice, he thinks. It occurs to him it belongs to a female but it doesn’t matter. It’s the gentle rhythm of it that he craves, the calming susurration which ebbs and flows as he drifts ever closer to the wakefulness.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>It is with great reluctance that Hermione cancels her time at the hospital wing the following weekend to attend Hogsmeade with Ginny, Harry, and Ron. They meet just before lunch, Ginny practically leaping into Harry’s arms whilst Hermione and Ron greet each other with a strained hug. Months of neither party maintaining consistent communication, for there had been no more letters since October, results in an awkward reunion.</p><p> </p><p>She knows she should tell him the truth, seeing him today provides the perfect opportunity; she should tell him the same way she told Snape. Just come out with it. But there is something in the way he asks her, ‘You alright?,’ issuing her a cautiously optimistic smile, that makes her dither.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine,’ she tries to say reassuringly but his frown suggests she has failed. ‘You?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Good, yeah,’ he replies, equally unconvincingly.</p><p> </p><p>They do manage to have a nice day, and there are moments when things feel <em>almost normal</em>; moments where they laugh, Ron really does make her laugh, where they gossip and chat like teenagers ought. They wander around the shops and Ron insists on buying her a large bag of sugar quills from Honeydukes, knowing they’re her favourite. There are gentle touches, just every now again, his hand near her elbow, hers on his shoulder. She reciprocates because she wants everything to be alright between them, but it feels false. It doesn’t help that Harry and Ginny won’t keep their hands off one another.</p><p> </p><p>By late afternoon Ron is complaining he’s hungry and the four of them retire to The Three Broomsticks where they order steaming steak and ale pies and pints of Butterbeer. They nestle into a booth table and are grateful for the roaring fire to stave off the winter chill that’s got right into their bones.</p><p> </p><p>Harry regaled them with stories from their Auror training; hunting down simpering ex-Death Eaters, hiding ‘like rats in drains,’ great battles down Knockturn Alley as they raided shops for Dark artefacts, and his frustrations that the Malfoys were likely to attain plea bargains, evading Azkaban in exchange for information on other Death Eaters. Hermione noticed Ron was oddly mute on the subject.</p><p> </p><p>‘Anyway, enough about us. Hermione, how’s “eighth year?” Ginny says in her letters but you hardly write,’ Harry said, shortly after their food had arrived.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, sorry. I’ve been so busy. NEWTs are a hideous amount of work.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You <em>enjoy</em> hideous amounts of work,’ Ron grinned.</p><p> </p><p>She managed a smile. ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘And you know I’ve been helping out on the hospital wing a little bit. It’s been really-’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, yeah. Ron did say,’ Harry interrupted, looking up, suddenly very interested. ‘You must have seen Snape then?’</p><p> </p><p>Slightly taken aback, Hermione nods. ‘I have, yes,’ she replied tentatively.</p><p> </p><p>‘You never mentioned,’ Ginny said, looking at Hermione quizzically.</p><p> </p><p>‘I never thought to,’ Hermione shrugged. She hoped to convey nonchalance but suspected she sounded defensive. ‘How do <em>you</em> know he’s there, Harry?’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s kind of my job to know that sort of thing, to keep track of Voldemort’s old followers, round them up…’ he paused to swallow a mouthful of pie and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Snape’s the least of our worries though, especially while ever he’s unconscious, but Shacklebolt is fuming about the whole thing.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What thing?’ Hermione asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘McGonagall’s protecting him. She’s claimed Scholastic Sanctuary* for him, or something. It means while ever he’s in Hogwarts, he’s protected, pretty much untouchable. Even by The Ministry,’ Harry explained, mopping up the last of his gravy with a thick chip. ‘Ideally, we’d have him being guarded at St. Mungo’s. That way, as soon as he’s conscious he could be arrested, and when he was discharged, we could get him in for questioning.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Questioning?’ Hermione said, her own lunch abandoned.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Harry replied, protracting the word as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Whatever the motivation, he <em>still</em> killed Dumbledore and there’s a few other things that don’t add up.’ </p><p> </p><p>‘But <em>you</em> know what really happened…’ Hermione protested feebly, ‘you said… his memories…?’</p><p> </p><p>‘What you defending him for?’ Ron asked, his mouth full of food. ‘He’s still a nasty bastard even if he <em>was</em> on our side in the end.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That seems a rather simplistic way of looking at things,’ Hermione said, biting back what she really wanted to say, which was that she would expect nothing less of him. Ron shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>‘I know, Hermione,’ Harry continued as though there had been no disruption, ‘and I intend to help in any way I can. I’m sure we can arrange some sort of plea bargain, maybe even exoneration for his part in some of the Death Eater stuff. But there’s a process and Snape isn’t above the law.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. Of course not,’ Hermione murmured, unsure why she felt such disappointment. ‘But he’s safe if he stays at the school?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Until Shacklebolt finds some loophole that means we can arrest him there, yes.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And you think he will?’</p><p> </p><p>Harry shrugged. ‘He seems pretty determined but it’s a very old, complicated law,  Scholastic Sanctuary, so who knows…. Hey, can I see him?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ Hermione says quickly, feeling suddenly and inexplicably quite protective of him. She would also never betray McGonagall like that. ‘He isn’t something to be ogled at!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t want to “ogle” at him. It’d just be good to report back. He <em>is</em> still unconscious, yes?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ Hermione says, her tone leaving no doubt for uncertainty even though images of Snape’s deepening frown, or the twitches at the edges of his mouth when she’s talking to him, flit through her mind. ‘I don’t have the authority to allow you up to the hospital wing.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mmm,’ Harry muses, ‘they’re not half as fun when they’re unconscious, anyway. The thrill is in the chase, as they say.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry…’ Hermione says, in half-hearted reprimand. The way he speaks doesn’t sound like him. He is so angry he practically spits. But then, things are only <em>almost</em> normal now. A new normal. Harry doesn’t have to be the same as he used to be. None of them are.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>The sky was a shock of fuscia and marigold, like blended chalk, when they leave The Three Broomsticks at dusk. Though a still and pleasant enough day, it was bitterly cold as they made their ways back through the winding cobbled streets of the village, huddled close.</p><p> </p><p>Ginny whispered something in Harry’s ear and then he turned to Ron and Hermione. ‘Hey, guys… err…’ he said, grinning down distractedly at Ginny who was hanging from his arm. ‘Ginny and I are going to take a walk by the river. Maybe I’ll meet you back at home later, Ron.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err…’ Ron looked at Hermione apprehensively. She averted her gaze. ‘Yeah, I’ll see you later, then. Bye Gin.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Bye.’</p><p> </p><p>Harry and Ginny moved away, still giggling and clinging to each other. Hermione and Ron were decidedly alone. He issued her a small, unsure smile. She took his hand, hoping that this small act might ignite something in her. His palm is clammy and cumbersome and it doesn’t fit in hers. They began walking with no clear intention and Ron inhaled deeply, clearly gathering himself to say what had gone unspoken throughout the whole day, if not through the last three months.</p><p> </p><p>‘Look, Hermione, I’m so sorry we argued before you left for school. I should have apologised in my letter but… well, you know what I’m like.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That feels like such a long time ago,’ she replied, ‘I barely even remember what we were fighting about.’</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her, looks like he remembers exactly what their fight was about. How all he’d wanted was some small sign of her commitment to him and how she’d been unable to offer it. ‘Yeah,’ he says instead. He kisses her. It is brief and not unpleasant, but there is still a niggle at the back of her mind.</p><p> </p><p>They begin moving up the lane, out of the village and towards The Shrieking Shack, in something akin to companionable silence. She releases her hand from his and digs it into her pocket, blaming the cold.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m, err, not sure the Auror stuff is for me,’ he says after a long moment.</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him. ‘Why?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not good at it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sure you are.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, Harry is good at it. He has a real passion and knack for it,’ Ron says. He’s doesn’t sound envious of Harry’s skill, just perhaps a little at his passion.</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry makes it sound like some game. I don’t like the way he talks about it, the “thrill,”’ Hermione replied. ‘“An eye for an eye and the whole world is blind” would be a better to remember than “the thrill of the chase.”’</p><p> </p><p>Ron shrugged. ‘You can understand why, given everything, surely? But it’s not just that I don’t feel the same need for… revenge, or whatever it is, that he does. I’m just not interested in it. I want a quiet life…’</p><p> </p><p>He pauses and she senses he wants affix something to the end of his sentence but can’t quite bring himself to do it: a quiet life with <em>you</em>. Hermione imagines herself surrounded by a hoard of flame-haired children but the image is hazy and dissipates as she tries to bring it into focus. </p><p> </p><p>‘What else would you do?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, George has offered me something at the shop,’ he says, ‘which I think I could be good at, but that will come with its own challenges. I’m no Fred.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she chuckled, ‘but you’re <em>Ron</em>, and that’s good enough! More than good enough!’ She watched his ears turn pink and felt good that this, at least, she could be truthful about. ‘You need to find something that makes you happy, not what you feel you ought to be doing. You owe it yourself, after everything you sacrificed.’</p><p> </p><p>He stopped walking as they reached the silent old shack on the hill, and turned to face her. ‘You’re right, of course. Always are,’ he chuckled. Then his expression changed as a serious shadow shifted across his features. ‘You make me happy.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled, feeling indeterminately sad, and nodded. She’s about to speak, maybe even about to break it off with him, when he’s kissing her again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you happy?’ he asked, when he finally broke away.</p><p> </p><p>She bobbed her head from side to side noncommittally. ‘Getting there, maybe,’ she replied. ‘In terms of work, I really think Healing is the right path. It’s purposeful, challenging…’</p><p> </p><p>‘I bet you’re brilliant. Hey, you don’t have to give Snape sponge baths do you?’</p><p> </p><p>She laughs properly at that. ‘Certainly not,’ she assures him.</p><p> </p><p>They fall into another silence, only this one is filled with things unsaid. She feels it as much from Ron as from within herself and wonders why they can’t be honest with one another. They always could before, when they were just friends, it’s what led to so much bickering; ‘like an old married couple,’ Harry used to tell them.  </p><p> </p><p>‘You should get back to the castle,’ he said at length. Suddenly they cannot meet each other’s gazes either.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right, yes.’</p><p> </p><p>He looks down at her sadly then reaches out, tentatively, to stroke a wayward curl behind her ear,  then cups her cheek in his hand. She leans into him slightly but it feels forced and awkward. She brings her own hand up to where his touches her face. His head dips and their lips meet again. The kiss is tender but clumsy. She needs it to end and pulls away. He nods as though acknowledging something and his hands fall to his sides.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not long until the end of term though,’ he says, smiling hopefully. ‘I’ll see you then. You <em>are</em> still coming to my parents’ for Christmas, yes?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course,’ she says, though her heart isn’t in it and she knows he can tell. ‘I mean… I hope so. I have a lot of work on.’</p><p> </p><p>He looks disappointed. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘well, write and let me know.’</p><p> </p><p>She nods. ‘Bye then.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Bye.’ And with that he is gone, Disapparating with a loud crack. She stares at the spot where he was stood for a long moment, thinking of what she should have said to him and pondering the cowardice that stopped her. She groaned to herself and set off back to the castle.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>It is late when she returns to castle and although she intended to head straight to bed, her feet lead her straight to the hospital wing. She pushed the door open tentatively, hoping that Pomfrey wouldn’t be there. She was pleased to see darkness beyond the matron’s observation window. As was customary, the curtain was pulled around Snape’s bed and Hermione slipped behind them silently.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hogsmeade weekend,’ she told him, ‘I restocked at Honeydukes,’ she added, pulling a sugar quill out of her bag and sitting in the visitor’s chair. She practically felt the disdain emanate from him despite his comatose state.</p><p> </p><p>He looked unchanged. The machine at the side of the bed still <em>huff-puff-hissed</em>, and Snape’s chest rose and fell in time with it.</p><p> </p><p>She sucked the end of the sugar quill thoughtfully. ‘So,’ she said at length, ‘you’re being protected are you? That’s why they’ve kept you here…’ She paused, leaning forwards to better observe his face. She thought perhaps she saw a twitch of an eyebrow, but it could just have easily been a trick of the flickering lanterns. ‘I think, perhaps, you ought to take your time waking up, Professor. You’re safer asleep. I won’t rush you anymore.’</p><p> </p><p>She briefly squeezed his hand, not even realising she had done it until it was done, and then sat back down in the chair. ‘We’ve finished <em>Jane Eyre</em>,’ she continued, pulling out a new novel from her satchel. ‘<em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em>. I think you’ll appreciate the theme of moral complexity...’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Ginny threw herself into one of the fire-side armchairs in the Gryffindor common room and began peeling off her saturated Quidditch boots. Rain water poured out of the bottom of them. ‘I know what McGonagall said at the start of the year about fellowship and mutual respect and all that good stuff, but that does not extend to Quidditch,’ she explained to her disgruntled team mates as they filed in behind her, crowding around the fire for some warmth after a long practice in a torrential downpour. They did not appear roused by their new captain’s speech. ‘Quidditch is a dirty business and we do whatever it takes to win!’ she concluded, sharply. The team all grumbled, looking between one another and then began retiring upstairs to the bathrooms and dorms whilst mumbling things about Ginny’s ‘foul mood’ under their breath.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione, who had been studying at a table in the corner, watched them leave and then made her way over to where Ginny remained by the fire.</p><p> </p><p>‘Everything OK, Gin?’ she asked gently.</p><p> </p><p>Ginny scowled at her. ‘No,’ she said shortly, ‘the team’s not good. My first – and last - year as Gryffindor captain; I wanted to win, you know?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You might yet.’</p><p> </p><p>Ginny scoffed. ‘And also,’ she continued, ‘I’m mad at <em>you</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What? Why?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ron says you’re not coming to ours for Christmas,’ Ginny said, accusatorially, her cheeks a little flushed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Gin, I never said that. I said I don’t know yet. I’m behind with school work,’ Hermione explained. It was a few days since they had been to Hogsmeade and the Christmas holidays were indeed impending.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re staying at school?’ Ginny hissed, even more annoyed. ‘I thought at the very least you must be seeing your parents or something.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Wendell and Monica…’ Hermione mutters.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry,’ Ginny says, more calmly, ‘I didn’t mean…’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If you’re behind with school work maybe you should spend less time at the hospital wing,’ Ginny continued, growing frustrated again. ‘<em>My</em> NEWTs are as much work as <em>your</em> NEWTs. <em>I </em>have Quidditch, just like <em>you</em> have the hospital wing. <em>I’m</em> still managing to go home for Christmas, to spend time with my friends and family. If last year taught us anything it’s that there’s nothing more important than that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I agree, it’s just…’ Hermione protested, feebly.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s just that that’s not what it’s really about, is it? They’re excuses.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione, if you’re going to end things with Ron – my <em>brother</em> – then you at least owe him the courtesy of doing it, rather than stringing him along. Stop being so selfish,’ Ginny concluded, issuing Hermione a withered look, scooping up her Quidditch gear, and storming upstairs to the dorm.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione watched her go and, not wanting another stand-off if she followed her up there, packed up her books, and made her way to the only place she ever really wanted to be these days.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘She’s absolutely right of course,’ Hermione told Snape ten minutes later. She had foregone the visitor’s chair and was pacing about the bed. ‘That’s the crux of it. And I knew this. I told <em>you</em> this. But… I still haven’t told <em>him</em>.’ She swears she sees Snape frown. She bets he wishes she’d shut up and leave him alone. He couldn’t possibly be the slightest bit interested in her teenage drama. ‘But then... oh, dear,’ she finally falls into the chair with dawning realisation. ‘Of course you’d know all about it, wouldn’t you? <em>Unrequited love</em>.’ She gives him a long look, chewing her bottom lip and narrowing her eyes. ‘And if you could, what would you say?’ she waited as if there was any chance of a response, and sighed when, predictably, none was forthcoming. ‘You’d say I need to tell him and I need to get on with it. You’d tell me Ginny’s right, it <em>is</em> wholly unfair to string him along and that he deserves the opportunity to be able to move on, not be stuck always wondering “what if.” You think it might even save our friendship, doing it sooner, rather than later…’</p><p> </p><p>She opened a sugar quill she found at the bottom of her book bag and chomped on it with furious thoughtfulness.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re quite right, Professor.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>When she comes she brings with her a certain smell, something he can’t place though he knows it is familiar. It’s on the tip of his tongue, sickly-sweet. She has begun touching his hand when she arrives and when she departs, a soft squeeze, the warmth from which lingers long after she has gone.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione didn’t go to The Burrow for Christmas, that didn’t seem fair either, but she did arrange to meet Ron at Madam Pudifoot’s before the New Year.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve never been able to understand what goes on in your head,’ he said, issuing her a sad smile. ‘But I reckon I can see where this is going.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so sorry, Ron.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hey, what’s there to be sorry for?’ he asked, reaching out and taking her hand. It already felt different, genuinely comforting, now he was doing it as a friend.</p><p> </p><p>‘I should have said something sooner, but… I couldn’t quite admit it to myself. I <em>wanted</em> it to work and I certainly didn’t want it to mean the end of our friendship.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Never!’ he said, smiling warmly, and she could believe him. She felt herself relax. ‘We’ve been through too much for that. I’m not going to pretend I’m not upset, though,’ he pouted, ‘or that I wish you didn’t feel differently, but thank you for being honest with me… <em>finally</em>!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t deserve you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, you don’t,’ he laughed, and she joined him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ginny’s very annoyed with me.’</p><p> </p><p>Ron laughed. ‘Protective little sister! You know what she’s like. I’ll set her straight. Oh, hey, I quit the Auror training! I start with George at shop in the new year.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s brilliant news, Ron!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Onwards and upwards,’ he said, grinning.</p><p> </p><p>They finish their tea and scones and she walks back up to the castle after seeing him off.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>I did it</em>,’ she tells Snape later that night, feeling an utter sense of release. He says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Term starts again in earnest and, between her school work and the hospital wing, before Hermione has even realised, it’s February and applications for the Healer program are due. She requests to see McGonagall, remembering her offer of help, and is summoned to The Headmistress’s office. McGonagall keeps it very similar to how it was in Dumbledore’s day with the addition of a few tartan throws over the back of the overstuffed armchairs, one of which Hermione sits in now, nursing a cup of tea while McGonagall reads through her application, and an aroma of heather. A self-playing harp strums something mournful from the corner.</p><p> </p><p>‘Your academic record is practically faultless… You describe your relevant skills, and the qualities that make you an ideal candidate, very well. I think you cover everything there… and yes, you’ve got down all your experience, including your work with Severus-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-I wasn’t really sure I should talk about that, Professor?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t name him, so there’s no breech of patient confidentiality, and it isn’t a secret that he’s being cared for here. You may be asked more at your interview.’ The older witch considered the application for a moment longer. ‘What you haven’t done is mention what inspired you to apply in the first place. It <em>is</em> mentioned as a prompt in the personal statement section.’ Hermione was fully aware that she had omitted this. McGonagall observed her over the top of her glasses for a moment longer and then, apparently realising Hermione wasn’t going to offer an explanation, prompted her with, ‘you did mention a reason to me when you wrote to me last summer asking for experience in the hospital wing?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione sighed. ‘Well, the situation has changed. They’re home now. In England, at least. So I know they’re safe.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That must be a relief.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione nodded. ‘If I must write something, I’ll write about the aftermath of the Final Battle. I’d wanted to avoid mentioning it really, but I’d rather write about that than my…’ she trailed off, forcing herself to meet McGonagall’s gaze.</p><p> </p><p>‘Write whatever is the truth,’ McGonagall said after a moment, ‘it’ll show if you don’t.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione writes about the Last Battle, how she was inspired by seeing the way Madam Pomfrey and some of the others had been able to help the injured and dying. It isn’t <em>untrue</em>, but it isn’t the truth McGonagall was talking about either.</p><p> </p><p>She visits Snape later that night. She cries as she tells him the real reason.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>The next few months passed in a flurry of exam preparation. If the workload before Christmas had been heavy, the expectations placed on the final years now were extraordinary. Every spare moment was spent revising or practicing spells.</p><p> </p><p>Ginny had warmed up considerably after Hermione had finally broken things off with Ron; her feeling was that the problem was not that Hermione didn’t want to be with him, but rather that she was messing him around, about which, after a long discussion, Hermione had convinced Ginny she agreed.</p><p> </p><p>They had met with Ron and Harry in Hogsmeade again at the beginning of May, on the day of the anniversary of the Final Battle. They had wandered the streets aimlessly in the balmy air, barely saying a word to one another. There was just a sense that they needed to be together on that day. They’d toasted the fallen with a Butterbeer in The Three Broomsticks.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall had led a moment of remembrance that night after dinner, it was an understated and respectful affair, and Hermione had visited Snape as well. She also had a sense that she needed to be with him that day. Perhaps he looked to have a little more colour, she thought, or perhaps it was just that there was sunshine at the windows now they were drifting into Spring.</p><p> </p><p>After that it became almost impossible to sneak away to the hospital wing when Hermione wasn’t officially supposed to be. The teachers hosted regular compulsory revision sessions after classes and when there weren’t formal sessions to attend the students arranged their own in the library. A few times Hermione had tried to excuse herself with protestations that she worked better alone but someone usually managed to convince her and she didn’t want to raise suspicion. She still did her shifts on Wednesdays and Saturdays, still tended to Snape’s wounds, but she seldom stayed after Pomfrey had left, and certainly did not have the time to read to him anymore.</p><p> </p><p>She heard back from St. Mungo’s and gained a provisional place on the Healers course pending at least five Exceeds Expectations grades. Their exams are difficult but Hermione is quietly confident.</p><p> </p><p>When they’re over she, Ginny, Luna, and Talia spend the last languid days before term ends by the lake. There is a sense that these last days should be savored. Hermione remembers what Ginny said about the importance of being with friends. They watch younger students skim stones, read in the shade of the willow trees, and wade up to their knees to cool off. They talk about the future.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione’s future no longer feels quite so unfocused, this last year has certainly put a few things in perspective, but there is still the pervasive sense of the uncanny cast about everything, like she’s reviewing someone else’s memories through a Pensieve.</p><p> </p><p>‘So, this is it then,’ Ginny says, as the sun sets over the lake on their final night. She rest her head on Hermione’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>‘This is it,’ Hermione agrees.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She has not been back for some time and he misses her, he realises. With each of her visits he had, seemingly, been drawn further from the brink. In her absence, he is listless.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>It’s early in the morning and a warm sunlight has begun spilling through the high windows of the infirmary, casting Snape’s bed in golden hues. Hermione is stood at his bedside, taking in the scene one last time before she catches The Hogwarts Express back to London, leaving Hogwarts forever.</p><p> </p><p>She observes his sallow skin, gaunt visage, and boney body. Any impression she’d had in recent months that he looked to be getting stronger was mere delusion; she sees now that he looks as diminished as he did the first time she had seen him lying there. She had also stopped noticing the <em>huff-puff-hiss </em>of his ventilator but it pounds her eardrums now; a reminder that his existence is almost artificial, the result of supplementary oxygen, blood replenishing potion, and copious dittany-laced medicines.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you for…,’ She isn’t sure what. <em>Listening</em> to her? He hasn’t had much choice. ‘Just, thank you,’ she says, with a small smile. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever know what your company has meant to me this year and… and I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do to help you.’</p><p> </p><p>She leaves a sugar quill on his bedside table and departs.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Although hers is gone, the other voices are still there, serious and matter-of-fact: <em>‘much improved… functioning </em><em>muscularis mucosae… ongoing signs of brain function… trachea healing... latest anti-venom has seen positive results with test subjects…’</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Positive developments, he supposes, though he still considers them to be keeping excessive records on a man who is only resting his eyes, just for five minutes.</p><p> </p><p>There is a new sensation now. Someone has taken his hand but it is not like when <em>she</em> held it. This is firm and purposeful. It is followed by a sharp scratch near his bicep and suddenly he feels like he is being propelled upwards, through the tunnel, at great speed. He braces for an impact that does not come.</p><p> </p><p>He feels nauseous, and then he is sick. He feels the sting of the vomit in the back of his throat, really <em>feels</em> it.</p><p> </p><p>He is blinded and then there is everything.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*The concept of ‘Scholastic Sanctuary’ is very much stolen from His Dark Materials.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Scholastic Sanctuary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Severus cannot get his legs to do as he bids. For a man who had previously been so wholly in control of his body, this is significantly disturbing. Autonomy has been scant in his bleak life, but he had always been able to rely on his own body. Its sudden dissidence is the ultimate betrayal. Now, he sits on the edge of the hospital wing bed covered in his own warm piss again because his legs wouldn’t carry him to the commode. The indignity of it might bother him more if only he had the energy.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy spotted him from her office and came bustling out, <em>scourgifying</em> his pyjamas bottoms with an expression that said: ‘this wouldn’t happen if you did your exercises.’ This has been her perpetual refrain ever since he’d woken up and the Healers from St. Mungo’s gave him the list of various strengthening activities to do each day. His muscles were so disused, they said, they had forgotten their purpose, but a few steps each day and their memory would soon be prompted.</p><p> </p><p>‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast,’ Poppy said reprovingly, nodding at the bowl of cold porridge on the bedside table, ‘you haven’t taken your medicine, and you don’t do your exercises! Really, Severus, enough is enough! It’s been three weeks.’</p><p> </p><p>He eyed her haughtily and, with a groan, sank back onto the bed. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, laying back with his eyes closed. His voice is raspy and speaking takes almost as much effort as standing.</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t have you down as one for wallowing, Severus.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I am full of surprises.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Never has a truer word been spoken,’ she replied, looking at him pointedly now. He picked up her inference and shook his head but said nothing. ‘We’re going for a walk,’ she said then, and it wasn’t a question.</p><p> </p><p>He opened his heavy eyes to find her stood at the end of his bed, her hands gripping the handles of a wheelchair he had thus far refused to even sit in. He eyed it with distaste, nay, contempt, and turned onto his side away from her.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>That look Poppy had given him, as she’d agreed he was <em>full of surprises</em>, had sent a sharp twinge of shame shooting through his abdomen. It had not taken long for him to realise that <em>everyone</em> knew. Potter had shared his deepest secret, his most sacred truth, with the entire wizarding world. If Nagini’s bite hadn’t killed him, he thought the mortification might. Dumbledore had once called his love for Lily the ‘best of him,’ but Severus felt it inside himself, malignant, foul and festering. He had never much cared what people thought of him, save for what they would think if they knew how he felt about Lily. They would laugh at him, surely, but worse than that, they would pity him.</p><p> </p><p>The fury was enough to motivate out him out of his sick bed, to hunt down Potter, and hex him to oblivion, which is how he came to realise his wand was missing.</p><p> </p><p>‘The Aurors took it,’ Poppy explained, with some reluctance, when he asked.</p><p> </p><p>He feels his temper flare again but she is quickly by his side, reminding him that angry outbursts are not conducive to healing neck wounds. He brings himself under control.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ostensibly, as part of their <em>investigation</em> but I think really it gives them a sense of control over the situation,’ she says. ‘They don’t like that you’re here so they intend to make things difficult.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He misses something that he can’t quite put his finger on. There’s a half-formed memory of something deep in his mind. A gentle, humming voice, which dances and trips over the words it speaks. It is comforting to think of but is just out reach. He grapples for it in those hazy moments between sleep and wakefulness, but it remains elusive.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Minerva visits regularly. She is exceedingly angry, at first. A part of this is reserved for Severus, yes, but mostly it is directed at Dumbledore. Severus understands that she feels betrayed, deceived, but he struggles to comprehend her empathy towards him. He had never considered himself as being used by the old man, like she says he has been.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about this often now. He has a lot of time to think.</p><p> </p><p>‘If you had just told one other person, Severus, so much heartache could have been avoided.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It was the way it had to be,’ Severus tells her, although he is perhaps trying to convince himself as much as her.</p><p> </p><p>Minerva also makes similar attempts as Poppy to coerce him out of bed. She is at least successful in getting him to sit up and share a pot of tea with her, bribed with a Mars Bar, which she knows is his favourite, although someone <em>had</em> left a sugar quill on his bedside table that he’d rather enjoyed.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>His sleep is often fitful and filled with dreams of bright green flashes of light, darkness, pain, and blood. He wakes in cold sweats, gasping for air and clutching at his throat. On one such occasion, it takes a moment for him to realise he is in the hospital wing, alone, though the heat of the mid-Autumn day <em>is</em> somewhat stifling.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy has left a window above his bed half open and through it drifts a gentle breeze and the sound of vaguely familiar laughter. It lures him and he wonders if maybe it is <em>her</em> laughter, she who had infiltrated all those months of his unconsciousness, and before he quite knows what he is doing he has struggled onto his knees and turned so that he can look through it, inhaling the fresh air and smelling the summer heat, earthy and floral. The height makes him woozy for a moment, but he slowly adjusts and looks down over the grounds.</p><p> </p><p>The leaves of the forest dance in the wind, vibrant hues of green swirling like waves, and the lake glitters with reflections of the golden light of the high sun. Summer always casts a staggering sublimity over the castle, was always Severus’s favourite time to be here.</p><p> </p><p>Minerva, Pomona, and Rolanda are the source of the laughter. <em>Disappointingly</em>. They sit around a stone table on a manicured portion of lawn close to the main entrance, sipping glasses of some red liquid decanted from a jug a middle of the table.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus?’ a gentle voice sounds behind him, disturbing him from his reverie.</p><p> </p><p>He turns, returning to a sitting position. ‘Poppy,’ he says, by way of greeting, ‘I… I was thinking…’ he pauses, glancing at the wheelchair, before sighing resignedly and pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. ‘I was thinking perhaps we could go for that walk,’ he concludes quickly, before he has chance to change his mind.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy positively beams at him and in the next moment she is helping him, clumsily, into the wheelchair. Although he has consented to the trip he begrudges that he needs to be pushed around like some invalid and scowls the whole time. Poppy reminds him that he <em>is</em> an invalid but, of course, if only he would do his exercises, he might not be for much longer.</p><p> </p><p>Nonetheless, he cannot deny it is pleasant to be out of the hospital wing. There has always been something comforting about the familiarity of the school’s corridors, whether whilst he skulked about them as a student or stalked about them as a teacher. He expects the gradual chill on his skin as they descend into the dungeons, and the buoyancy in his chest at the comfort which comes from entering the Great Hall. The smells, too, provoke nostalgia; dusty pages of old books in the library, stews and baked goods being made fresh in the kitchens. Hogwarts had been the only home he had ever truly known.</p><p> </p><p>And then he <em>remembers</em> and shakes all such thoughts from his mind. Hogwarts had lured him with false promises and trapped him with illusions.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy stops by the main doors and there is a pregnant pause. ‘Outside?’ she ventures, after a moment.</p><p> </p><p>He nods once and she pushes him onwards. The warmth of the sun on his skin, and feel of the breeze through his hair is dreamlike. He inhales the pine-scented air deeply, basking in the freshness of it all. He manages to summon the strength to walk down the stone steps which lead down onto the front lawn from the main doors, before falling back, still unwillingly, though he acknowledges the necessity, into the wheelchair. Poppy settles him and then pushes him in the direction of the voices of his colleagues, which are louder now.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, my… Severus,’ Minerva announces, turning as she hears the crunch of the gravel path under the wheels. ‘How wonderful to see you out and about. Please, join us. Elderberry wine?’ She indicates the jug in the middle of the table. Pomona, and Rolanda raise a glass of the red liquid to him, tipsy grins on their faces.</p><p> </p><p>‘He shouldn’t really,’ Poppy says, even as she pushes him closer to the table and takes a seat herself. Minerva conjures two extra glasses and decants some of the wine into each of them before handing one to Poppy and the other to Severus. The jug refills itself.</p><p> </p><p>Severus grimaces, sipping at the sweet wine and screwing up his nose even though it isn’t all that unpleasant. The chill of it, especially, feels wonderful sliding down his raw throat.</p><p> </p><p>‘How are you feeling?’ Rolanda asks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Like shit,’ he replies, his voice raspy, and they all laugh.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well enough to muster your usual happy-go-lucky demeanour though, Severus,’ Pomona said, matching his wry expression. He thinks these people could have been his friends, under very, very different circumstances.</p><p> </p><p><em>Lost opportunities</em>. He sighs and takes another sip of his drink.</p><p> </p><p>‘Minerva tells us you’re going to be staying with us for… the foreseeable future,’ Pomona then said.</p><p> </p><p>‘She does?’ Severus looked quizzically from Pomona to Minerva.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve explained that, as Headmistress of this school, I have extended Scholastic Sanctuary to you. It’s what has kept The Ministry at bay while you recover and I intend to keep you protected for as long it takes to clear your name,’ Minerva explained.</p><p> </p><p>He places his half-empty glass back on the table, struggling to swallow the last mouthful he’d taken. ‘That might be never,’ he chokes, almost inaudibly.</p><p> </p><p>His four colleagues watch him with sad expressions. <em>Pity</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘Then you can stay here forever,’ Minerva said with some determination.</p><p> </p><p>‘You won’t be Headmistress <em>forever</em>,’ Severus reminds her.</p><p> </p><p>‘I have no plans to go anywhere, anytime soon. And we can always ensure my successor is sympathetic to your cause.’</p><p> </p><p>Sympathy was not what Severus desired. It was just another word for <em>pity</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘There could be an argument…’ Rolanda put forth tentatively, ‘that you owe people an explanation, of course.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Rolanda!’ Poppy admonishes her. ‘He doesn’t need this stress.’</p><p> </p><p>‘She’s right,’ Severus grunts, indicating the flying teacher. He wished he’d stayed inside. He picked up the glass of wine again and downed it in one causing Poppy to issue him a reproving look.</p><p> </p><p>‘Perhaps,’ Minerva then said, ‘but not at the cost of spending the rest of your life in Azkaban, surely? After everything you’ve done for the wizarding community, at what cost do you submit to The Ministry’s questioning? If you stepped even one foot beyond the entrance gates they’d have you arrested and incarcerated, and who benefits from that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m a <em>murderer</em>,’ he said, the word leaving a bad taste in his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>‘There are extenuating circumstances.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No one forced me to ki-… do what I did, and other than Potter’s word for it,’ he paused, thinking of his memories, thinking what Potter had told them all, ‘there is no evidence.’ He suspected Potter hadn’t shared the full contents of his memories with anyone, certainly hadn’t shown anyone, but that was just semantics. They still knew.</p><p> </p><p>‘I think you’ll find Potter’s word is worth quite a lot these days.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that so?’</p><p> </p><p>Minerva sighed and refilled her glass from the decanter. ‘You just need to know that the offer is there, Severus.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I do and… I’ll think about it,’ is about as committed as he feels he can honestly be when actually he thinks he has made up his mind, knows what he has to do. ‘Can we go back in, Poppy. I’m tired,’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>After his jaunt outside, Poppy doubles down on his rehabilitation regime. By the end of the week he can walk around the whole hospital wing unaided before collapsing back onto the bed, feeling like he’s run a marathon. He curses her as he gasps for breath.</p><p> </p><p>‘But still,’ Poppy encourages him, completely unfazed by his rudeness, ‘it is progress.’</p><p> </p><p>She takes him out into the grounds in the wheelchair more often. It is somehow easier to breath the air outdoors. She pushes him close to the lake so he can dip his toes in. Sometimes he gets out to walk for short periods; sometimes he trips over his own feet or can’t hold his own weight and Poppy has to call Hagrid to come and lift him back into the chair.</p><p> </p><p>Minerva’s time is consumed now in preparations for the impending school year, but she makes time to visit. The usual topic of conversation is Scholastic Sanctuary and whether or not he has made a decision.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ he tells her.  </p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He is also visited by Kinglsey Shacklebolt, Interim Minister for Magic, when word has reached him that Severus is well enough. He is accompanied by a nameless Auror and, to Severus’s intense chagrin, Harry Potter. Severus hears them before he sees them, outside the hospital wing doors, quick-paced footsteps and raised voices. Minerva’s Scottish burr is amongst them and Severus recognises her tone, the one reserved for the most troublesome and frustrating students. ‘You have no authority here!’ she practically shrieks at them as the doors burst open and they descend upon Severus, who sits in his bed, unperturbed. He tells Minerva he’ll be fine and with a huff she stalks back out of the room.</p><p> </p><p>‘Snape,’ Shacklebolt greets him.</p><p> </p><p>Potter remains silent, loitering at the end of Severus’s bed clutching a quill and pad of parchment. He nodded just once to acknowledge Severus. Their eyes meet and something passes between them but Potter’s expression is inscrutable. Severus feels a familiar sense of loathing seep through him. He wonders, for a moment, whether he would have shared his memories even with Potter if he’d have known he wasn’t dying. It is Severus who looks away first.</p><p> </p><p>‘I understand you’re feeling sufficiently well?’ Shacklebolt continues.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Sufficient</em> is subjective. <em>Sufficient</em> for what?’ Severus queried, adjusting himself on the bed so he sat a little higher. The damage to his throat had rendered him incapable of the cool silkiness he could muster as Potions Master, but the rasping tones he spoke in now could be no less chilling. He dusted a crumb off his knee.</p><p> </p><p>‘To answer a few questions,’ Shacklebolt said curtly. ‘We want to know what you next move is.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I obviously will not be <em>moving</em> very far,’ Severus said. ‘I did recently manage to get to the end of the corridor out there unaided, though, so you might want to station your Aurors at the school gates in case I’m planning my getaway any day now.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not concerned that you’re a flight risk,’ Shacklebolt said, struggling to maintain ministerial composure. ‘Rather the opposite, in fact. My concern is that it’s your plan to stay here.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ah.’</p><p> </p><p>‘As you’re well aware, you are untouchable here!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I am.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If you were to submit to questioning, voluntarily, if you would be willing to help us… there are plea bargains on offer for those who can give us information,’ Shacklebolt explained.</p><p> </p><p>‘You mean to say,’ Severus interrupted him incredulously, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘that people like Lucius Malfoy are going to get away with it <em>again</em>?’ He scoffed. ‘I’d rather accept responsibility for my actions.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then you <em>will</em> submit to questioning?’</p><p> </p><p>Severus glanced at Potter. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Why wasn’t he writing anything in his stupid pad of parchment. The boy was infuriating, as ineffectual as an Auror as he had been as a student.</p><p> </p><p>‘I will… think about it,’ Severus replied, at length, with a small nonchalant shrug, all the time knowing that he has made up his mind.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They leave, Shacklebolt clearly furious. A few minutes after, just as Severus is settling himself back down in his bed to nap, there’s the sound of footsteps hurrying back up the corridor. Severus cracks open an eye just as Potter is pushing back through the hospital wing doors. He approaches Severus’s bed and their gazes meet again in a silent stand-off.</p><p> </p><p>Again, it is Severus who is the first to break it. ‘If you’re just going to stand there, Potter, do you mind if I go to sleep? I’ve had a tiring day.’</p><p> </p><p>Potter glanced back at the doors. ‘I forgot my pad,’ he said, picking it up from where he’d left on the next bed.</p><p> </p><p>Severus scowls. It annoys him that Potter has clearly left the pad behind on purpose so he would have an excuse to come back and that he, Severus, hadn’t had the wherewithal to notice. This was the exactly the type of clumsy trick Severus should have noticed; would have definitely noticed in his past life as a spy. ‘Well, you have it now,’ he said dismissively.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… look, Snape… I…’ Potter stammered.</p><p> </p><p>Severus inhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Just spit it out.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I have your memories still, is all, and… and I haven’t shown anyone yet, I wouldn’t without your permission, but…’</p><p> </p><p>‘But what?’</p><p> </p><p>‘They’d be the best defense… you might not even receive a custodial sentence if we used them as evidence.’</p><p> </p><p>Not quite knowing where he has summoned it from, with a sudden surge of energy, Severus is on his feet and has moved close to Potter. ‘Is it not enough that you have told everyone? You want to show them now?’ he asked, furiously. He’d reached for Potter’s collar as he spoke but just as quickly Potter’s hand was feeling for his wand so Severus let go. ‘If you show <em>anyone</em> those memories,’ he snarled, their faces still within inches of each other, ‘it’ll be your murder they’re trying me for, never mind Dumbledore!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I want to help. I… I think owe you that,’ Potter practically spat, pushing Severus away from him and moving a few paces across the room.</p><p> </p><p>It shocked Severus that Potter didn’t cower, there was a time a student would have cowered had Severus so much as looked at them. But then Potter wasn’t a student anymore, and Severus wasn’t a teacher, or a Death Eater, or a spy. He was diminished. He sat back down on his bed, head spinning. ‘You owe me nothing.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He becomes almost nocturnal once the students return to the school in September, sleeping in the day and moving about the castle after seventh year curfew. It is cowardice alone, he knows, that motivates him to go to such lengths to avoid seeing the children, but the thought of looking at those faces he so let down last year fills him with hot shame.</p><p> </p><p>So, he wanders the corridors by night, avoiding everyone but the ghosts, usually, and building his strength. He had always preferred the castle at night anyway; the moonlit corridors, the chill of the place, and the quiet. Sometimes he hears voice echoing along the stone walls and is reminded of another voice that had reached him in the depths of his slumber. A voice that had teased him towards the light, made it seem like there was something worth waking up for…</p><p> </p><p>His wounds are healing. His neck and upper chest are a mess of puckered, raw skin, which he is forced to stare at, repulsed, in the bathroom mirror each morning and evening. But they no longer weep the putrid brown stickiness and, the odd twinge aside, there is no longer any pain.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He stands atop the Astronomy tower, close to where Dumbledore fell from, leaning against the parapets with a cigarette between two slender fingers. Almost two years have passed since the attack, almost eight months since he awoke from his coma, and he has regained some of his fitness. The Healers have told him he will never have the strength, or endurance, he had before. The venom has done too much damage to his body; to his heart, his lungs, his muscles. Indeed, he is prone to shortness of breath, aching limbs, and palpitations. He will be required to take medicinal potions for the rest of his life, which is likely to be much shorter than it otherwise might have been. It is with this in mind, that he takes another drag on the cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>He had managed to get down to The Shrieking Shack today. McGonagall had warned him against it but he wanted – <em>needed</em> - to see for himself where it had happened. He had leaned against the doorframe of that shabby room, staring at the dark stain on the floorboards. It had made no sense to him that that was <em>his</em> blood. He’d heard of people dissociating from traumas like that, but he could remember every minutia of that night, from The Dark Lord’s sour breath as he berated Severus about the Elder Wand, to the sudden realisation that Nagini had been ordered to kill him, to the sting of her fangs in his neck as she ripped and tore at his flesh. Just his luck.</p><p> </p><p>Back on the Astronomy tower he finds the fingers of his spare hand have wandered to his neck. The feel of his skin is more repulsive even than the look of it. Minerva was right, he regretted visiting The Shrieking Shack.</p><p> </p><p>‘There you are,’ a gentle, maternal almost, voice came from behind him, though it startled him nonetheless. A nervous disposition had not been something which had previously afflicted him and he resented the way his body betrayed him by flinching at the slightest things. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Minerva continued, coming closer and placing a hand, briefly on his shoulder, then, ‘Severus! That <em>cannot</em> be good for you!’ she said, alarmed, jabbing a thin finger in the direction of his cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>He looked between her and the cigarette. ‘Having a smoke is the first thing I thought about when I woke up out of my coma,’ he said, knowing it would annoy her. <em>Second thing</em>, he corrected himself internally. The first had been <em>that</em> voice; he longed to hear that voice again before all else. ‘And today is the first opportunity, after all these months, I’ve had to sneak off for one,’ he said, but he didn’t have the energy to argue and so took one last drag of the cigarette before flicking it off the ramparts. He exhaled the smoke out of his nose, raising an eyebrow at her, daring her to continue reprimanding him.</p><p> </p><p>She clucked at him and shook her head. ‘I won’t tell Poppy on <em>this</em> occasion,’ she said, wrapping her shawl a little tighter around her body.</p><p> </p><p>‘Enabler,’ Severus remarked.</p><p> </p><p>She eyed him sideways. ‘Incorrigible as ever.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ he smirks.</p><p> </p><p>They fall into a companionable silence, for that is what they have grown to be over the years. He had perhaps not appreciated her guidance and advice in those early days of his teaching, but at twenty-one he had been loathed to listen to the counsel of anyone, really. Caught between colleagues who had once taught him, and students he had once shared the common room with, he had, as always, not really fit anywhere. Minerva had persisted though, catching him in vulnerable or overwhelming moments, tempering his furies with reassurance and lifting his dour moods with her caustic humour. They had developed a banter reflective of their Houses’ long-held rivalries; bets on Quidditch matches and a healthy competitiveness with awarding, and deducting, House points. There was also an undeniable, often unspoken, mutual respect of each other’s skills. In that final year of the war, when he had stood in as Headmaster, it had been the betrayal of Minerva which was one of the most difficult to stomach; the look in her eyes as they had duelled in the Great Hall was not a look he was unfamiliar with, loathing, disappointment, and fury, but he was not accustomed to seeing that expression directed at him from Minerva.</p><p> </p><p>‘So,’ she said, after a long, contemplative moment. ‘Azkaban.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. ‘Azkaban.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Help me understand your thought process here, Severus, because I’m still struggling.’</p><p> </p><p>‘They say Azkaban is not so bad these days.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It is still a prison.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s really only trading one type of prison for another. In Azkaban, I’ll do my time and then, at some point, they’ll let me out. Here, under Scholastic Sanctuary, I would be trapped indeterminately. That is far more terrifying than Azkaban, can’t you see? And…’ he paused, taking time to choose his next words carefully. ‘I don’t want to be beholden to you… to <em>anyone</em>, for that matter.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I… I hadn’t thought of it like that. It wouldn’t be the same as… Albus. I wouldn’t expect repayment of any kind. You’d go back to being a salaried teacher, that’s all.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It may come as something of a surprise to you, Minerva, but I do not particularly <em>enjoy</em> teaching.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Really? Couldn’t tell,’ she states, simply, looking out over the Forbidden Forest.</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her askance to see she is avoiding his gaze but smirking subtly. He sighed and turned his back to the view, leaning back against the parapets and folding his arms. ‘I am <em>so</em> tired, Minerva,’ he said at length. ‘Really, deeply tired. In my bones. I don’t have any fight left.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then let others do the fighting for you, for a change. Harry-’</p><p> </p><p>He cut her off with a dismissive, irritated gesture of the hand. ‘I want <em>nothing</em> from <em>him</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry wants answers, Severus, but he doesn’t want you to go to Azkaban.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Still, no.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Stubborn, impossible man!’</p><p> </p><p>He grins. He likes this assessment of himself. It makes him feel more back to his old self. ‘They reckon I stand a good chance of a reduced sentence, once everything is considered.’</p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him with an indeterminable sadness in her eyes that he can’t bear to confront. He turns away. ‘It’s like you <em>want</em> to be punished,’ she said, her voice tinged with anger and regret.</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t think I deserve punishment?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think perhaps you’ve suffered enough.’</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed and shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>‘I wish you believed me,’ she continued, with some consternation. ‘I wish you believed you were worthy of happiness.’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head and a heavy silence fell. ‘Will you visit me?’ he asks, after a long moment, and the smirk is back. He eyes her with a raised brow.</p><p> </p><p>‘Most certainly not!’ she lies.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll send you a visiting order anyway,’ he replied, then, more seriously, ‘I hope you don’t think me ungrateful? I am thankful for everything you have done for me, keeping me here while I got better. Lending Poppy’s time and attention… I realise you didn’t have to.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, but I did!’ she said, seemingly suddenly angry with herself. ‘I let you down greatly. Ever since you were a boy… I should have noticed something.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus shrugged. Of all the people he had blamed for his misfortunes throughout his life, Minerva had never been amongst them.</p><p> </p><p>There is another long moment of silence in which he is aware that she is scrutinising him again. ‘Will you promise me one thing, Severus?’ she eventually says.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That when it’s over, your sentence I mean, you will move on, make a new life for yourself?’</p><p> </p><p>He considered this. He had spent so long living amongst memories and ghosts that such a concept seemed inconceivable. If he tried to imagine some future as a free man – a truly free man – it was shrouded in impenetrable fog. ‘I… will try,’ he says at length, and in the moment, he means it.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>The trial takes place on a hot Monday in mid-June.</p><p> </p><p>Minerva had insisted on coming with him, which he appreciates even if he does protest, and they push through the crowds together towards court.</p><p> </p><p>‘Wait,’ she’d said, as they passed a newsstand before descending into The Ministry via the phone box. She’d pulled out a little coin purse from within the folds of her robes and handed over 60p for a Mars Bar which she’d handed to Severus with a wry grin, like a grandmother sneaking sweets to a favoured grandchild. He takes it with a murmured ‘thank you’ and pushes it in his pocket. He’s worried he might vomit if he eats it now.</p><p> </p><p>Severus had been warned that there would be media attention, but could not have been prepared for the deluge of clicking and flashing or the onslaught of questions as he emerged into The Ministry’s atrium. Minerva tugged at his sleeve and pulled him forwards towards the court. He kept his head low, trying to ignore everyone.</p><p> </p><p>He stands before the Wizengamot. They talk and he listens but it’s like he’s underwater. Nothing they say really reaches him. There’s just one charge, no mention of him being a Death Eater other than in the context of his duel role, which he suspects he has Potter to thank for. They read a statement written by Potter; any mentions of how Potter knows the truth thankfully vague. There’s now specific mention of his memories. Potter’s word is taken as gospel anyway. Severus glowers at the boy where he sits beside Minerva in the packed spectator gallery.</p><p> </p><p>Severus offers little in his own defence. They ask him what he pleads and in a firm tone he tells them: ‘guilty.’ This is followed by more indistinct talking, and then: <em>‘Mr. Severus Snape, you have been accused of one charge, the murder of Professor. Albus Dumbledore, to which you have pled guilty. The Wizengamot has taken all extenuating circumstances, specifically the testimony of Mr. Harry Potter as to your duel role in the war, into consideration when determining your sentence. As such, I am ordering you be committed to the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who will oversee your detainment in Azkaban for a period of five years.’</em></p><p> </p><p>He glances up at the spectator gallery again and sees Minerva’s stricken expression. Potter is comforting her and when Severus looks at him he can’t stand to see the pity in those emerald eyes. Severus looks away and refuses to look back as the Law Enforcement wizards bind his hands behind his back and lead him from the court room. He does not fuss or challenge them.</p><p> </p><p>They take him to a holding cell in the bowels of the Ministry; a small, tiled room that he could probably reach right cross if he tried. There’s a cot, which he sits down on, and a course blanket which he puts over his legs. It is cold and he hates the cold. It reminds him of the dungeons.</p><p> </p><p>He feels in his pocket for the now slightly melted Mars Bar Minerva had bought him and, unwrapping it, takes a satisfying bite, which he savours, knowing it will be the last he tastes in a long while.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Corner Shop Dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione had accepted the job at the corner shop because it was practical, and she was nothing if not practical.</p><p> </p><p>It was walking distance from the house-share she was renting at (advertised as “affordable” but read as “cheap”); it paid £4.10 an hour (National Minimum Wage), which, on top of the small stipend she received for her apprenticeship in the local hospital, gave her a little extra spending money at the end of each week; and, most importantly, she didn’t really have to talk to anyone, at least, not beyond telling them to ‘have a nice day’ as she handed over their change.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes the owners would let her take home stock that was going passed its sell by date, and this could keep her ticking over for days. She had worked here for two weeks, and already there was something to be said for the monotony of it, the predictability was comforting. There was Mr. Goddard who came in every other day for a packet of digestive biscuits and a pint of semi-skimmed milk; Mr. Donald arrived at opening time every morning for his newspaper; Mrs. Timms sometimes just popped in to say to ‘hello’ to the proprietor and sometimes bought a loaf of bread; Danny Moore and Callum Ives bought a fifty-pence pick-and-mix every Saturday, and Mrs. Nuttal always picked up her baking ingredients on her way home from work at the school. </p><p> </p><p>For great stretches of the day, the little shop on the corner of a rather grey and nondescript street in northern England, was empty of customers, and Hermione could while away her time with her head in some text book or other, the extra time to study always greatly welcome during the final year of her Healer course.</p><p> </p><p>Students on the Healer program didn’t get any say on which hospitals or surgeries they were assigned to during their final year of training, nor indeed had they had any say in their previous placements. As such, Hermione had found herself shunted up and down the length of the country over the past seven years. There had been a stint at St. Mungo’s, another in Edinburgh, and last year had been spent living in a quaint Cotswold village where she’d dealt with an array of rather mundane, if not questionably acquired, magical mishaps typical of an eccentric rural community. This year she was assigned to St. Valentine’s Hospital of Magical Maladies in the centre of Manchester* where things had certainly been a little more interesting; the variety of things which occurred in an inner-city hospital were enough to keep anyone on their toes. The training had been demanding, exhausting work, but now the end was in sight it all felt worth it.</p><p> </p><p>Most importantly, it kept her mind occupied. Between the hospital, the rest of her coursework, the shop, and attempting to maintain something of her social life, there was very little time to dwell. She is an introvert, she has come to realise, and she has made her peace with that.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Two beef and tomato Pot Noodles, a loaf of bread, pint of milk, tub of butter, and a Mars Bar are unceremoniously dumped on the counter before Hermione even realises there’s a customer in the shop. Her head has been buried in a copy of <em>Hester Brightman’s Herbology for Healing</em>, transfigured to look like <em>Oliver Twist</em>, but she looks up as a blunt, husky voice says, ‘and a twenty pack of Marlboro Lights.’</p><p> </p><p>She pulls the cigarettes out of the display behind her and rings up the other purchases, paying him the scant attention she pays any customers who don’t show her the courtesy of basic manners. He pushes a £20 note across the counter with a long-fingered hand; she notices his nails are chewed because it’s a habit she abhors. <em>Typical</em>, the thinks.</p><p> </p><p>It is only as she hands him his change that she deigns to look up at him. She falters then, the coins still clasped in her hand even as it rests in his receiving palm. His head is low at first but after a moment he raises it to observe her, to see what the delay is. They stare into each other’s eyes, both seeing ghosts.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Professor Snape</em>?’ she whispers, incredulous.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses, his expression stricken. ‘No,’ he says, disbelievingly. ‘No. No, no, no.’ He stumbles backwards, knocking into a display of crisps, and almost falling over.</p><p> </p><p>He looks decidedly Muggle, even head to toe in his customary black. She might not have recognised him, she thinks, if he had been wearing just a touch of colour. He has on black jeans and trainers, a black Harrington jacket and polo neck t-shirt buttoned right up to the top. It crosses Hermione’s mind that that must be an attempt to distract from the scars on his neck, but she sees them creeping above the collar. He must feel her gaze on them because he looks suddenly uncomfortable and tries to pull his jacket a little further around himself. His hair still hangs in curtains over his dark features, but it is shorter than she has ever seen it before, and greying slightly at the temples.</p><p> </p><p>He has righted himself by now and reaches out to snatch his carrier bag of shopping off the counter before turning and practically running out the shop. The little bell above the door tinkles pleasantly before the door itself slams shut.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at it, frozen for a moment, and then her feet are carrying her through it herself. It is raining outside, it always seems to be raining here. She looks up the street one way and sees nothing, then back down it the other way and sees Snape hurrying away, not quite so impressive without his billowing black robes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Professor!’ she calls after him. He glances back, just briefly, looking more annoyed with himself for not ignoring her than anything else, and then Apparates. Danny Moore and Callum Ives, who were playing on their bikes at the other side of the road, look up shocked, but don’t seem to think much of the loud cracking noise they’ve clearly heard.  ‘Professor…’ she then said, more quietly, futilely, ‘you forgot your change.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He would just have to find somewhere else to shop. There was nothing else for it.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter that the corner shop was mere walking distance from Spinner’s End, or that he’d successfully avoided the nearest supermarket on principal, partly in protest at the unbridled gentrification of Cokeworth town centre, and partly because it was always rammed full of Muggles, ever since it was built almost two decades ago. It was a simple solution; he would start shopping <em>there</em>, principals be damned. He might even get a loyalty card, he thought. The corner shop took liberties with their prices anyway. He was going to save a fortune. </p><p> </p><p>He’d Apparated straight back into his living room at Spinner’s End and, after casting one last glance down the street to check she wasn’t still following him, had drawn closed the curtains, though this did little to desist the creeping unease he’d felt at being confronted so forcefully by relics of his past. He sank back onto the shabby settee, the plastic bag with his purchases in it still clutched in hands. </p><p> </p><p>‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.</p><p> </p><p>He’d given her just a cursory glance as he’d entered the shop. This had clearly been his first mistake. There was a time when he could give a room a cursory glance and it would tell him a story in an instance; Lily’s faltering smile, a student’s timorous withdrawal, the glint in Dumbledore’s eye, the smirk dancing on The Dark Lord’s lips… He had been adept at parsing the minutiae of these situations and could infer from them where danger might lie. It was a skill quite integral to his survival at one time, but he had grown comfortable and complacent in recent years, the skill dwindling from disuse.</p><p> </p><p>So, when he had entered the corner shop today – a day like any other – a cursory glance had told him little of the threat lurking behind the counter. He had been disinterested at best, even when he was closer to her, handing over the rumpled £20 note with his gaze trained to the floor. It had only been when she’d touched him, when her fingers brushed his palm as she handed him his change, that he’d sensed anything amiss. She’d paused, arousing his suspicion, but it was more than that. More like he’d felt the bristling of her magic. When he did eventually raise his eyes, he had not recognised her immediately. It had been what, seven years? No, eight. There was something familiar about her hair, undoubtedly, but swept back off her face in a low bun, such as it was, was not what he was used to. No, it was in her expression. A fleeting look of recognition followed, predictably, by questioning. She was a <em>questioner</em>. Always had been. Indeed, the first thing out of her mouth had been a question: “<em>Professor Snape?</em>” He scoffed into the empty living room. He was no one’s Professor.</p><p> </p><p>No, it was no good. He would have to find somewhere else to shop.</p><p> </p><p>He realised then that he had forgotten his change. All £1.75 of it.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She knew he had been released from Azkaban the summer before the same way that everyone knew he had been released from Azkaban the summer before; she had read it in <em>The Daily Prophet</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It had not warranted the front page, like it might previously have done, but she had stumbled across a few column inches, a few pages in, declaring that his sentence was over. There’d been no further details. She’d tried to ask Harry whether he knew anything, had heard anything at work about what had become of Snape. He’d said not, either reticent to share confidential information or because he genuinely did not know.</p><p> </p><p>She kept her ear to the ground whenever she was at St. Mungo’s (for lectures or demonstrations) too, in case anyone mentions him. He is something of a medical marvel after all. But again, there is nothing. For the past year he had seemingly disappeared from the wizarding world, not that she had probed <em>too</em> deeply into where he might be. She had other things to occupy her mind now, after all.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Curiosity had never been a friend to Severus. He had been <em>curious</em> about Lily; <em>curious</em> about the Dark Arts; <em>curious</em> about the little meetings Lucius used to arrange when they were at school, and <em>curious</em> about what was happening during Trelawney’s job interview. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ his mum always said, and on many occasions during Severus’s life that had almost proved a more accurate prophecy than any Trelawney had ever made.</p><p> </p><p>He groaned as his duplicitous legs carried him down Spinner’s End and back to the corner shop, propelled by his old nemesis, curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He is back before her, scowling. It has been three days.</p><p> </p><p>Without a word, and watching her carefully, as if daring her to say something, he places bacon, a tin of baked beans, a ready-made ham, cheese and pickle sandwich, and a Mars Bar on the counter. She began to ring them up, holding his gaze. He is scrutinising her as if to be sure that his eyes didn’t deceive him before.</p><p> </p><p>‘And a twenty pack of Marlboro Lights,’ he grunts.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Please</em>,’ she responds, without really thinking, glancing up briefly in time to catch him glowering at her.</p><p> </p><p>He sniffs but remains otherwise mute. She gets him the cigarettes anyway. Takes his money and gives him his change.</p><p> </p><p>‘You forgot this, before,’ she says simply, before he has chance to escape. She hands him a clear plastic money bag with his £1.75 change in it from last time, when he’d bolted through the door. He takes the additional change and nods once. She supposes that’s the best she’s going to get by way of a “thank you.” He turns to leave but pauses by the door, his hand outstretched to the handle. His head drops, curtains of ever-greasy hair falling over his face, and there is pregnant silence. Then, in the next moment he has pulled the door open and disappeared again.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>It is called the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, when something you have newly discovered suddenly appears everywhere. Hermione hadn’t initially known that but, as she likes to understand things, it had been necessary to look it up when it started happening to her; when, after her first encounter with Snape, she had begun to see him everywhere.  </p><p> </p><p>He continued to come into the shop, head kept low, an expression like he wanted to say something but cannot bring himself to do it. But that doesn’t count.</p><p> </p><p>She sees him through the window of the green grocer’s; stalking down the street carrying a small bouquet of flowers (she of course wonders who these might be for); on another occasion, shortly after the first time she saw him in the shop, she sees him stalking down the street with a ‘bag for life’ from the local supermarket in his hand, his face contorted with distaste. If he sees her on any of these occasions, he gives no sign that he has and these brief moments told her very little of his life.</p><p> </p><p>The most significant incident, however, came a few weeks after that initial encounter. She had walked home from work the same way she always walked home; left out of the corner shop, down the street, second right along Loom Close, through the ginnel**, down Spinner’s End, right at the bottom, third left, and she was home. It was a fifteen-minute walk and nothing extraordinary ever took place on it.</p><p> </p><p>Except on this day, as she emerged from the ginnel and onto Spinner’s End, she was met by the sound of a screaming toddler and, upon further inspection, found that the child was in the arms of Severus Snape.</p><p> </p><p>He did not seem to be the cause of the child’s distress, thankfully. There was a soft toy on the floor which Snape swooped to pick up, bobbing it about in front of the wailing child’s face for a moment before handing it over. The child stopped crying just as it’s mother, who was nearby, wrangling two older siblings and a pram through the door of one of the terraced houses, turned back to Snape. She said something to him which Hermione couldn’t hear and then reached out to take the toddler, who Snape handed over eagerly. They spoke for a brief moment longer and then the woman turned into number 9 and Snape moved back towards the next house.</p><p> </p><p>He’d got one foot back inside the open door when he caught sight of Hermione who, suddenly self-conscious, realised she had stopped in the middle of the street and was gawking at him. Perhaps it was the incongruous nature of what she’d just witnessed; dark, brooding ex-Potions Master, Severus Snape, comforting a crying child, which had shocked her into stillness, but she couldn’t get her feet to move.</p><p> </p><p>Snape looked furious, a pinkness in his cheeks she didn’t think she’d ever seen before, even as she’d seen him practically apoplectic during her school days. He was embarrassed, perhaps. He took a few ferocious footsteps in her direction, his crooked teeth bared.</p><p> </p><p>Instinctively, she placed a hand over her wand, which she kept in her coat pocket. He noticed immediately though, and halted, stiffening. His expression changed just as suddenly, it softened. He looked almost apologetic.</p><p> </p><p>‘I wasn’t going to…’ he said, in that raspy voice, trailing off. He groaned, more to himself than at Hermione, and in the next moment had turned on his heal and disappeared back inside the house. A rusty bronze number “7” on the door glinted in the weak October light.</p><p> </p><p>She knew he bought fresh, locally sourced vegetables. She knew he hated the big supermarket. She knew he bought flowers for someone on a not infrequent basis. And now she knew where he lived.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He waits a week before he’s back in the shop. He practically throws a TV Guide, can of Coke, and a Mars Bar at her. She leans against the counter, drumming her fingers against the marble-effect laminate, waiting expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>‘And a twenty-’</p><p> </p><p>But before he has chance to finish she’s grabbed a packet of cigarettes and slammed them onto the counter in the same way he did with his other purchases.</p><p> </p><p>‘£13.65,’ she demanded.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Please</em>,’ he said irascibly, taking his time, counting the money out exactly. Hermione wondered whether he his buying himself time, building up the confidence, to say whatever it is he still so obviously wants to say. He hands her the money, which she takes, and bags up his items. He glared at her for a moment longer and then turned and took the three long strides it took to cross from the counter to the exit. He paused with his hand on the handle, same as before.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m only going to be here until the summer,’ she said suddenly, before he had chance to leave. ‘Nine months.’ She wonders why she is telling him this; whether to reassure him that she won’t be around forever, or to let him know that they don’t have forever to say whatever it is they might want to say to each other, for there are perhaps things she wishes to say to him as well.</p><p> </p><p>He turned slowly, his head first and then the rest of his body. She noticed the black of his clothing was slightly faded, like it had seen too many hot washes, giving him a shabby look. But he’d filled out a bit since he’d been on the hospital wing, which contributed to an altogether healthier appearance.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hmph,’ he muttered, and then was gone, the tinkle of the doorbell the only sign that he had been there at all.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>It is dusk, and in a field, far away from Spinner’s End, Severus sits looking out at the horizon. The weather is miserable, rather reflective of his mood, and he is smoking too much. He brings the cigarette to his mouth and inhales, but the nicotine does little to settle his frayed nerves.</p><p> </p><p>If anything is calming him, it’s being out here, on the marshes. He enjoys the delicate ecosystem of it all; the water, the reeds and sedges, the voles, curlews, and redshanks. And the starlings. The marshes seem endless when you’re amid them, a maze of ever changing rivulets and grassy banks. Cokeworth can seem as claustrophobic as Azkaban, or even Hogwarts, were at times. Especially now <em>she</em> is there, he thinks, spitefully. But out here in this wild expanse of untameable landscape, he is the closest to free he has ever been. The peace of the place is also conducive to organising his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>Why <em>is</em> she there? That is one question, but it is not the one which bothers him the most.</p><p> </p><p>She reminds him of something. Something comforting, like the warm envelopment of nostalgia or the first sip of hot cocoa when you’re cold in your bones. It’s something about her voice, he knows that. It teases him. He wants to hear her speak more but wouldn’t know how to prompt her, wouldn’t know what to say to her; the stilted discussions they’ve managed so far only leave him wanting more. It feels like something just out of his grasp, on the very tip of his tongue. Sometimes he thinks he’s got it, and then it has drifted away again, like smoke. Whatever it is, he intends to get to the bottom of it. <em>Curiosity killed the cat.</em></p><p> </p><p>He concludes, for now, that he knew her a lifetime ago, when he was Potions Master at a school of witchcraft and wizardry, and like some grim spectre of this past, she has merely returned to haunt him, his latest punishment.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>There he is again, looking no more pleasant than usual. It’s a jar of raspberry jam, tea bags, two tins of cream of mushroom soup, and a Mars Bar today. She has his cigarettes waiting for him on the counter before he gets there. She rings up his purchases, he pays. He takes his change, pockets the cigarettes, and picks up the carrier bag. He gets as far as the door before, head low so she can’t see his face, he speaks, but when he does it is no longer with those silky tones he had spoken with when he taught her; he sounds croaky, almost like he needs to clear his throat.</p><p> </p><p>‘But <em>why</em>?’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Why are you here?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I work here,’ she replied.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Every month Hermione must attend a day of seminars, lectures, and demonstrations at St. Mungo’s. Hermione looks forwards to these days not least because they provide some respite from the oppressive, eternal grey of Cokeworth, but mainly because, after her lessons are over, she is invariably invited for dinner at Harry and Ginny’s. They have made a home of Grimmauld Place, which is now unrecognisable from what it had been when it served as headquarters for The Order.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the glass of red wine Ginny offered her and settling back onto the settee. ‘This is much needed, they’ve had us marching up and down the hospital corridors practically all day. My feet are kill-… what?’ She broke off, realising that both Harry and Ginny were looking at her expectantly, with wide, silly smiles.</p><p> </p><p>‘We’ve got something to tell you,’ Harry said, putting an arm around Ginny where she was sat beside him on the opposite settee to Hermione.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh?’</p><p> </p><p>‘We’re getting married!’ Ginny suddenly burst out, thrusting her left hand in Hermione’s direction, her second finger adorned with a sizeable diamond.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione shot upright, almost spilling wine out of her glass. ‘Oh my God! Congratulations!’ she beamed at them, grabbing Ginny’s hand for a better look at her ring before moving across the room to embrace them both. ‘How? When? Tell me everything!’</p><p> </p><p>‘It was very romantic, wasn’t it, Ginny?’ Harry said, with a wry smile.</p><p> </p><p>Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘Not in the slightest, but I loved it anyway. He did it in the changing rooms after we lost the match against the Tutshill Tornadoes last week. I’d taken a bludger to the face and broken my nose, blood everywhere, and he said if he still fancied me looking like that then I was definite marriage material. He thinks he’s hilarious!’</p><p> </p><p>‘You said “yes” didn’t you? So, I obviously do something for you!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm, yes, you’re <em>very</em> famous!’</p><p> </p><p>Harry snorted and they all laughed.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so happy for you,’ Hermione said. ‘And I bet your mum is thrilled, Ginny?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, she’s beside herself! I’m sure you can imagine. Hey, it’s not just us though. Have you heard about Ron?’</p><p> </p><p>Despite herself, Hermione felt her insides turn cold. ‘No. Engaged?’ she said, as neutrally as possible. It wasn’t that she still held any kind of flame for Ron, it was just never nice to hear that your ex had moved on quite so profoundly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not <em>engaged</em>,’ Harry chuckled.</p><p> </p><p>‘He’s seeing Talia Murray,’ Ginny explained.</p><p> </p><p>‘Talia Murray who we shared a dorm with in our final year?’ Hermione asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah. Apparently, she works in Flourish and Blott’s and they bumped into each other on their lunch breaks a couple of months back. One thing led to another and now they’re pretty serious!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, that’s great news too!’ Hermione insisted, earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>‘How about you?’ Ginny asked, ‘any eligible suitors in wherever it is St. Mungo’s have shipped you off to this year?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione thought about the last few men she’d spoken to; the stuffy Healers at St. Mungo’s and St. Valentine’s; her housemate, Benji, a Muggle who worked in PC World and was nice enough but was not particularly Hermione’s type. And Snape.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, decisively. ‘No one at the moment.’</p><p> </p><p>She considered telling them about Snape but, for the time being, something stopped her. She didn’t want to burst Harry and Ginny’s happy little bubble, for one thing, but there was a distinctive part of her which wanted, for unknown reasons, to keep Snape a secret. At least until she knew more.</p><p> </p><p>‘Food’s ready,’ Harry said, a short while later and they moved into the dining room.</p><p> </p><p>They ate their dinner, sharing perhaps one too many celebratory glasses of wine, and laughed into the small hours of the morning.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione Apparated back to the edge of Cokeworth Comprehensive School’s playing field, which she knows will be deserted this hour. It’s a short walk from here back to her shared-house. She is, really, genuinely happy for Harry and Ginny. And Ron, for that matter. But whenever her friends achieve these milestones there’s a little part of her that wells with self-pity and she can’t help but think she is missing out on something. She convinces herself that she is busy with her training, her studies, her work. That she doesn’t have time for relationships, barely, in fact, has time to maintain her friendships. But there is a longing there, for someone to come home to at the end of a long day, to moan about the government with, to take day trips to the countryside with. To share a life with. She can’t help but feel she is doing an injustice to the people who didn’t make it this far, those who had died in the war, by not living her life to the absolute fullest. These feelings will have passed come morning, but in the moment, they are real and very acute.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>The next day, feeling perhaps a little worse for wear following the previous night’s wine intake, Hermione is on the opening shift at the shop. She bitterly regrets having forgotten she’d agreed to said shift as she is putting the day’s newspapers out on the bottom shelf whilst trying not to vomit onto them. She’s on her hands and knees, placing the final few copies of <em>The Guardian</em>, when the shop door opens with its distinctive tinkle. She looked over to see his long legs, clad, of course, in black jeans, and her gaze rose to his face. He had paused at the sight of her on the floor, and raised an eyebrow. She scrambled to her feet and moved behind the counter where, inexplicably, she felt a bit safer.</p><p> </p><p>He closed the door and walked around the shop without a word, filling his arms with items he didn’t even really seem to be looking at, before dumping them on the counter in front of her. She’s got his cigarettes ready for him before he’s even asked. She holds them out questioningly and he nods once in acquiesce so she rings them up with the rest of his items; more Pot Noodles, a loaf of bread, jar of coffee, and, of course, a Mars Bar. She takes his money, hands him his change. He doesn’t turn to leave.</p><p> </p><p>When she looks up at him, he’s scowling. ‘You… are unwell.’ It was a statement, not a question, she noted, and the shock of hearing it strikes her momentarily dumb.</p><p> </p><p>‘N-no,’ she stammered in response when she finally found her voice.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hmph.’</p><p> </p><p>And he was gone.</p><p> </p><p>A few hours later Danny Moore and Callum Ives have popped in to plunder their pocket money on sweets. The sweets were kept in jars behind the counter, it was an archaic gimmick which the locals enjoyed as it reminded them of their childhoods. Danny Moore and Callum Ives only cared about getting their sugar fix.</p><p> </p><p>‘50p mix of everything, please!’ Danny Ives said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Same for you Callum?’ Hermione asked, smiling. They were both little rogues, riding their bikes around the streets of Cokeworth with little regard for traffic or pedestrians, bored kids roaming aimlessly, but you couldn’t fault their manners.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, please!’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione turned to begin adding a variety of treats into little paper bags. She was vaguely aware of the little tinkle of the door opening again and another customer entering, but that was hardly out of the ordinary. It was only when she’d filled both bags did she turn back to the front of the counter to find Snape stood behind the two boys. Twice in one day; <em>that</em> most certainly was unusual. He hung back, with an impatient look on his face, until Danny and Callum had finished their purchases. The boys each pushed 50p across the countertop and then, heads down as they inspected their loot, left.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione watched the door close behind them and then looked back to Snape. ‘Twice in one day,’ she said, genuinely bemused. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’</p><p> </p><p>He closed the distance between them and then reached into his pocket and withdrew a small glass phial filled with a dark brown liquid. She recognised it instantly as hangover potion. He placed it on the counter, casting a furtive look down one of the aisles, to a door where the stockroom was. Although his head was still low he raised his dark eyes to observe her.</p><p> </p><p>‘You are unwell,’ he said again.</p><p> </p><p>She reached out and touched the phial with her fingertips. When she did this, he withdrew his hand. ‘Yes,’ she replied, after a moment. She wrapped her hand around the bottle and pulled it closer towards her.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded once and then turned on his heals before she had chance to say thank you.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She loiters just inside the ginnel for a moment, watching number 7 for signs that he’s home and daring herself to cross the street and knock on the door. There’s a light on in the hallway, she can see it through the crescent of frosted glass at the top of the door, but beyond that, it’s impossible to tell. The house sits still and quiet, the same as every other on the street.</p><p> </p><p>She had pondered the possible reasons behind Snape’s gesture at length. She’d downed the hangover cure almost as soon as he’d left the shop and had felt instantly better; it was strong, well-made stuff, not shop bought. He’d <em>made</em> it. <em>He’d</em> made it. But as well as dissolving her headache and the waves of nausea, it had also brought to the fore an odd feeling of uncanniness. It clearly meant <em>something</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He’d made his move, and she now she would be expected to make hers.</p><p> </p><p><em>Are you a Gryffindor, or not?</em> She finally says to herself, back in the ginnel, summoning all her mental strength and marching across the road. She hesitated for just the briefest of moments before knocking on his door.</p><p> </p><p>A short time later it swings slowly open to reveal Snape stood just beyond the threshold in jogging bottoms, an old t-shirt, and his socks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Can I come in?’ she asked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* St. Valentine is, addition to love, the patron saint of bees and beekeeping. The worker bee is a symbol of the industriousness of Mancunians. </p><p>** “Ginnel” – n. a narrow passageway or alley often between terraced houses - is one of those words used in England which dictates whether you’re a true Northerner or a Southerner. “Ginnel,” as opposed to “alley,” is more popular in Lancashire (where this part of our story happens to be set) and so is the word I chose to use on this occasion. Another alternative, “snicket,” is also popular in Northern England, however, does not specifically denote a passage between terraced houses such as I wished to convey. </p><p>A/N I would also add that I know nothing about cigarettes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Withy Copse Farm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘I brought you this,’ Hermione said, handing him a Mars Bar. ‘To say thank you for the hangover potion.’ He stood mutely, holding the ends of the Mars Bar between the thumbs and forefingers of both hands and looking at it as if he’d never seen a Mars Bar before in his life. Hermione sighed. ‘I thought you must like them. Every time you come in the shop the two things you invariably buy are Mars Bars and cigarettes, and I didn’t think cigarettes would make a particularly appropriate gift. I can take it back if you don’t want it?’</p><p> </p><p>He glanced up at her, then shook his head and mumbled something that might have been a ‘thank you,’ before retreating to the opposite side of the room where he stood with his arms folded across his chest, glowering expectantly at her out of the gloom.</p><p> </p><p>She was sat on a sage-green, velvet settee in Severus Snape’s living room. At the front door, five minutes ago, he had grunted and stepped aside to allow her admittance, then he’d glanced up and down the street suspiciously before closing the door and leading her in here. It was not at all as she might have expected Severus Snape’s living room to be; a floral rug is laid across the bare floorboards in front of the electric fireplace; three elegant porcelain figures, depicting bucolic girls carrying lambs or baskets of eggs, adorn the hearth; there’s a grubby looking net curtain up at the window, which casts the whole room in an eerie half-light. An ornate wooden cuckoo clock <em>tick-tocks </em>on the wall. Besides the settee there was a wingback armchair, upholstered in a similar pattern to the rug and pushed into a corner next a crammed bookshelf, aching under the weight of its contents, in the alcove next to the fireplace. The whole place would be better suited to an old lady, Hermione thought, and although it was clean enough there was a pervasive air of neglect about the place.</p><p> </p><p>‘I, err… didn’t have you down as an twitcher,’ she commented, nodding in the direction of a leather-bound book entitled <em>Birds of the British Isles and their Eggs</em>, which lay open on the side table next to the armchair. She had made the comment to try and alleviate some of the frostiness, but suddenly Snape had snapped the book shut and shoved it back into a gap on the shelf behind him.</p><p> </p><p>‘I take it you didn’t come here to discuss ornithology?’ he snarled.</p><p> </p><p>She sighed. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I didn’t.’</p><p> </p><p>But what had she come here to discuss? Now she was sat facing him, she wasn’t even sure herself. She had perhaps hoped that when she came face-to-face with him she would just know. She supposed she owed him some sort of explanation, perhaps even an apology, but then, the very same could be said for him. She also wanted answers.</p><p> </p><p>‘Look, you came to <em>me</em>, Miss…’ he trailed off, screwing closed his eyes for a moment as though shaking a terrible memory his mind, before continuing in mumbling tones, ‘I didn’t invite you here.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s not?’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s hardly fair to say that the <em>intrigue</em> hasn’t been mutual. There are other places you can buy Mars Bars and cigarettes, yet you came into the corner shop with increasing frequency after you found out I was working there.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘It’s my local shop. I’ve been buying Mars Bars and cigarettes from there since before you were born. Why should I stop because <em>you’re</em> suddenly working there?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t have a television.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You bought a television guide but you don’t even have a television,’ she said, gesturing vaguely at the corner of the room where a television might go if he did have one. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were looking for excuses to come into the shop.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Quite the reconnaissance mission you’ve been on. Do you keep mental records on all your customers like this?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I do, actually,’ she smiled. ‘It helps me provide excellent customer service.’ She paused, waiting for him to say something, but he just stood there, mutely, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, so she continued. ‘And you may not have invited me here exactly, but you did give me the hangover potion which was certainly invitation to… <em>something</em>,’ she concluded. Now she thought about it he had been uncharacteristically maladroit, keep coming into the shop, asking stilted questions the way he had. He could have kept his distance, watched her surreptitiously. Gathered his own intelligence. Surely these had been necessary skills during the war, and yet, in the end, he may as well of just confronted her.</p><p> </p><p>He huffed, then dropped into the armchair and ran his hands over his face despairingly. ‘Alright, alright,’ he groaned. He removed his hands from his face and finally looked up at her. She recalled a glint he’d used to have in his eye, a flare of warning, but it isn’t there now; his gaze is dull and tired. When he spoke again his timorous tone wasn’t something she was familiar with from him either. ‘Please just tell me why you’re here?’</p><p> </p><p>She’d come here determined to get answers, but hearing him like that lessened her resolve; she found herself beginning to feel almost sorry for him. ‘OK… I’m training to be a Healer. For my final year placement, I’ve been sent to St. Valentine’s. I live in Cokeworth because it’s cheap and I work at the shop for a bit of extra money.’</p><p> </p><p>He studied her as if waiting for something more, but when she remained silent, he prompted her with, ‘that’s it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘So… no one… <em>sent</em> you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Who would send me?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t answer questions with questions. <em>You</em> tell <em>me</em> who would send you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. St. Mungo’s sent me, I suppose,’ she shrugged, ‘they oversee the training program.’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. ‘But not… not The Ministry or… <em>The Prophet</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Why would they?’</p><p> </p><p>He gave her a sideways look but didn’t answer her. ‘You could live anywhere and Floo or Apparate to St. Valentine’s.’</p><p> </p><p>‘They prefer us to live in the area where we work, to understand the people, and I don’t particularly like Apparating or using the Floo over too long a distance. I get a bit motion sick doing it too often.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked to be giving this some consideration and must have concluded he believed her because the next time he spoke, he rather changed the subject. ‘You… you won’t <em>tell</em> anyone, will you?’ The nervous edge to his voice was back. ‘That I’m here, I mean.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err… no. Of course, not if that’s what you want.’</p><p> </p><p>His expression suggested he didn’t fully believe her on <em>this</em> matter, but he did seem to relax, his shoulders sagging a bit. He looked at his feet and muttered a more distinctive, ‘thank you,’ than before, following which, they fell into another awkward silence. For a moment he looked like he did every time he came into the shop, like there was something brewing in him that he wanted to say but couldn’t bring himself to. Then, in the next moment, his expression changed and she saw he appeared to be doing some quick mental arithmetic. ‘Hang on,’ he said, frowningly. ‘You finished school in ’98. It takes what, six years, to become a Healer? So, you should have qualified two years ago.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I went back to sit my NEWTs after the war. Actually, I-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-OK,’ he interrupted her, just as she was mustering the courage to mention the hospital wing, ‘fair enough, but that still leaves a year unaccounted for. You should have graduated last year.’</p><p> </p><p>‘This conversation is going to be impossible while ever you interrupt me, trying to trip me up, and make out that I’m being dishonest.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked a little taken aback by her tone, but then, as far as he was concerned, she thought, the last time they had spoken was when she had still been his student. He couldn’t give her detention now, although he looked like he was contemplating it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t act suspiciously if you don’t wish to arouse suspicion,’ he said, and the way he said this was the closest his voice had come to sounding like his Potion Master’s drawl. Otherwise it remained hoarse. </p><p> </p><p>‘That’s rich coming from <em>you</em>,’ she said without thinking.</p><p> </p><p>He frowned and opened his mouth, undoubtedly to issue some snide retort, when a high-pitched sound filled the air. He was on his feet again, apparently startled. ‘What <em>is</em> that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just my phone,’ Hermione explained, fishing the source of the din out of her handbag and reading the name of the caller on the screen. ‘I’m going to have to take this. Sorry… can I just…’ she stood and left the room.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He had a strong dislike for Muggle technology at the best of times, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not get used to mobile phones. Before he’d gone to Azkaban no one had seemed to have one, except perhaps the odd suit-wearing Muggle he’d seen on his rare visits to London, but he was released to a changed landscape. There was no escaping that robotic ringing everywhere he went; more than once he thought he’d caught someone talking to themselves, only to realise, when they turned around, they were on the phone to someone.</p><p> </p><p>He could hear <em>her</em> in the hallway, talking to whoever it was that had called. She’d closed the living room door but through it he could make out the frantic pace of the conversation and her worried tone, even though he couldn’t tell what exactly she was saying.</p><p> </p><p><em>Had</em> the hangover potion been an invitation? Perhaps subconsciously it had, yes. He <em>needed</em> to know why she was here, why she’d infiltrated his kingdom after he’d gone to such lengths to protect himself this time.</p><p> </p><p>Six years ago, he had stood, one final time, on the castle ramparts listening to Minerva try to convince him to accept Scholastic Sanctuary, and all the while his mind had been made up: after Azkaban he would cut himself off completely. The only future he could envisage for himself, the only way to keep his promise to Minerva that he would try and build a new life for himself, was to turn his back on the wizarding world completely.</p><p> </p><p>But then Hermione Granger had turned up in the corner shop, of all places, reminding him of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was highly suspicious. A threat. He needed rid of her but he’d made too many missteps already; he was embarrassed by his lack of subtlety; he would never have been so clumsy during the war, to lure her here with such little finesse. He was out of practice. Rather than getting rid of her, he’d given her reason to be suspicious of him and now it was clear she had unasked questions. She <em>was</em> a questioner. Her coming here had only raised more questions for him as well. There was something decidedly <em>incomplete</em> about her story and what the hell was it she reminded him of? Infuriating.</p><p> </p><p>The chatter in the hallway stopped and she re-entered the living room, disturbing him from his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>‘Err… my boss, from the shop,’ she said, by way of explanation. Her cheeks were flushed and he didn’t believe her. ‘They don’t have anyone for the evening shift. I’m going to have to go.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ he said, with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him like she might be about to tell him the truth and then thought better of it. She threw the mobile phone back in her handbag before turning back to him. In addition to her pink cheeks there was a new look her eyes. She was trying to conceal it but she looked deeply worried. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘well, bye then.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah.’ He saw her to the door and with a last glance up and down the street to check he wasn’t about to be ambushed by Aurors or, worse, journalists, he closed (and bolted) the door behind her.</p><p> </p><p>From outside, he heard the distinctive crack of Disapparation.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Out of number 7, across the road, and half way down the ginnel, Hermione Disapparated with little regard for if anyone saw. She reappeared a moment later, swallowing a wave of nausea, at the end of a deserted dirt track, just wide enough for one car, next to a sign which read “Withy Copse Farm.”</p><p> </p><p>The fields on either side of the track had been filled with corn during the summer, but harvested, they lent a bleak, sultry backdrop to her tramp through the mud. She followed the track for perhaps half a mile until she came upon a stone-built farm house. Whenever she came here she Apparated to the end of the lane and then walked the rest of the way so that when she arrived at the door she would appear a little out of breath, a little flustered, and there wouldn’t be too many questions about how she’d gotten there so quickly.</p><p> </p><p>She knocked twice on the front door and then let herself in. ‘Mon?’ she called into the apparently empty house. ‘Dell?’</p><p> </p><p>There was no response, but as she moved through the house she heard muffled voices from the kitchen and followed. The scene that greeted her was crimson. Wendell sat in one of chairs at the kitchen table, whilst Monica held a blood-stained tea towel to his forehead. There was also blood splattered down his Tattersall shirt and cream corduroy trousers. The contents of a First Aid Kit were strewn across the table.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m fine! Honestly, woman!’ Wendell protested, trying to swat his wife away. Monica sighed exasperatedly and removed the tea towel, only for more blood to pour down Wendell’s cheek.</p><p> </p><p>Having seen Snape so recently, to Hermione the scene was oddly reminiscent of that time he had almost bled out on the hospital wing. ‘Oh, da- Dell!’ she said, moving to his side and taking over the tea-towel holding from Monica. ‘What happened?’</p><p> </p><p>‘He tripped down those bloody cellar stairs again! I’ve told him, I don’t know how many times, they’re an accident waiting to happen. But will he listen!’ Monica explained. Her anger only betrayed her worry. After all, Monica and Wendell really only had each other in the whole world; if something was to happen to one of them it was hard to say what would become of the one who was left behind.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve told you, I’m fine,’ Wendell grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>Monica looked between Hermione and her husband, a little shell-shocked. ‘I’m so sorry, Hermione… I didn’t know who else to call.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s fine,’ Hermione replied, knowing she would come day or night, wind or rain, if they called her. ‘But you should probably have called an ambulance. This is a deep cut, and on his head, you know, it’s a worry.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You know what it’s like out here in the middle of nowhere. I knew you’d get here quicker than any ambulance, and that you’d be able to patch him up!’</p><p> </p><p>‘And I can. Don’t worry, Mon. Can you get me a fresh towel, please?’ Monica handed her a clean tea towel out of a drawer. ‘No,’ Hermione elaborated, ‘I need something bigger; bath towels.’ What she really needed was to get Monica out of the room.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right. Airing cupboard,’ Monica said to herself, pointing at the ceiling, before dashing out of the room and heading upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione turned back to Wendell. ‘Right, Wendell. Head back, eyes closed,’ she said. He did as she asked, then, listening to Monica’s footsteps on the floorboards in the bathroom above them, Hermione retrieved her wand from her coat pocket and ran it down the length of the gash in Wendell’s head. She had never done the spell non-verbally before, but she was satisfied with the results as the wound began to knit itself together and the blood flow stopped. Just as Monica’s footsteps could be heard coming back down the stairs, Hermione managed to cover the area where the wound had been with a large plaster. ‘There you go, Wendell. Leave that on for a few days and you might not even have a scar. Any headache, dizziness, nausea, sight issues? Other pain?’ she asked him, checking his pupil dilation. He shook his head. ‘Then I think you’ll survive.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing a good cup of tea won’t fix,’ Wendell then said, looking over at Monica, who had just re-entered the kitchen with her arms full of towels, expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, sorry, Mon,’ Hermione said, ‘we managed without towels in the end.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s OK. He’ll be alright? He doesn’t need to go to the hospital?’ Monica asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I shouldn’t think so, but just keep an eye on him. If he starts to feel funny at all, you might want to take him over to West Mendip.’</p><p> </p><p>‘A lot of fuss about nothing,’ Wendell complained.</p><p> </p><p>Monica tutted and rolled her eyes at him, causing Hermione to smile, and filled the kettle. ‘Will you stay for a cup?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, please.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later they sat around the log burner in the kitchen nursing mugs of hot tea. The farm house was, as always, in a state of utter chaos. The sink and every countertop was filled with used plates, pots, and cutlery; a line of dying herb plants withered along the windowsill, and Hermione was sure she could see a trail of mouse dropping by the back door. Everything that wasn’t used daily was dusty, dirty, or grimy. The perfect metaphor for the inside of its resident’s minds, Hermione thought, grimly.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve been tinkering,’ Wendell said to explain what Hermione assumed to be engine parts on the kitchen table. ‘Trying to get the old tractor up and running.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione glanced at Monica and then looked sceptically back at Wendell. ‘Are you sure that’s such a good idea?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Perfectly,’ he replied, looking shocked that she would even ask.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione sighed. ‘Dell… what if you have one of your funny turns while you’re driving it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s no telling him,’ Monica interjected. ‘He fell headfirst into a hawthorn bush last week! Had to pull him out by his ankles!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m <em>fine</em>!’ Wendell insisted. ‘I do wish you would stop fussing. I can’t remember the last time I had a funny bloody turn.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You never can, <em>afterwards</em>!’ Monica reminded him. ‘I really do despair!’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s not what caused you to fall down the cellar stairs then?’ Hermione asked carefully. ‘You didn’t… see her again?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. The cellar stairs need fixing.’ Wendell was adamant. ‘She <em>was</em> by the hawthorn bush though, I will admit.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione smiled. ‘What was she doing, Dell?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Reading her book to me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>I Capture the Castle</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s always <em>I Capture the</em> – bloody - <em>Castle</em>!’ he grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione laughed fondly. ‘It is a good one.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Her favourite,’ Wendell said sadly, looking into the dying embers of the fire.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>It was dark by the time Hermione found herself winding back down the dirt track to her Apparation point. A visit to Monica and Wendell was always emotionally draining, even on a good day, not least because each time she was reminded of what a complete and utter mess she had made of things. </p><p> </p><p>Wendell undoubtedly suffered the worst for it. Whilst Hermione’s father had a been a gentle, bookish man, who never missed an episode of <em>University Challenge</em>, Wendell, although not unkind, could be brusque and short-tempered at times. He would snap at Monica, which Hermione’s dad would never have done, and was unreasonable and churlish, frustrated by his own forgetfulness. Tormented by half-formed memories.</p><p> </p><p>For her part, Monica was timid, scatterbrained, and dreamy. She had an air of Trelawney about her, Hermione often thought, whilst her mum had been rational, intelligent, and witty. A force to be reckoned with.</p><p> </p><p>They were her parents and yet they were not.</p><p> </p><p>That’s why she’d had to start calling them ‘Mon’ and ‘Dell,’ it was easier to cover up when she accidentally called them Mum and Dad.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A day later and Snape was back at the shop. He’d looked over at the counter and nodded once when he’d seen her standing there. She’d been reading <em>I Capture the Castle </em>but tucked it away when he entered. He took his time, walking up and down the aisles and she began to suspect he was being intentionally irksome.</p><p> </p><p>‘Everything alright yesterday?’ he asked, when he eventually approached the counter, handing her a TV Guide.</p><p> </p><p><em>Just</em> a TV Guide. She looked between him and the magazine. He raised a provoking eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>‘What? Err… yeah, fine. Thank you. Cigarettes?’ she replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘Good,’ he said, pulling out some loose change from his pocket. ‘And no, thanks. Trying to cut down.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… right. £1.35 then, please.’</p><p> </p><p>He handed over the money and picked up the magazine, rolling it up and tapping it against his empty left palm. He was wearing that expression like there was more he wanted to say, then his lips twisted and he made a thoughtful tutting sound before nodding his head. She was expecting him to turn and leave, maybe pause at the door again, but then he spoke. ‘It’s just that you weren’t here,’ he said, his tone something unfamiliar. Hermione wondered whether he didn’t sound genuinely concerned.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione shrugged. ‘Just a change of plan, in the end. They got someone else to cover. Were you… <em>spying</em> on me?’</p><p> </p><p>His expression changed suddenly, a dark cloud coming over his features. He looked to be internally reprimanding himself for something. ‘No,’ he replied, quickly. He shifted as though he was going to leave and then seemed instantly to think better of it and turned back to face her. He seemed palpably uncomfortable, battling with himself, avoiding her gaze and twisting the magazine anxiously in his fists. She got the impression he didn’t want to be here but also that he couldn’t help himself. ‘I… you seemed upset, when you left,’ he said, barely audibly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… no. Well, yes, but, it’s fine now,’ she replied, knowing how unconvincing she sounded. She had realised last night, once she’d made it home and washed the day off herself, that she had gone to Snape’s house for answers, and had come away with more questions. If anything, he had turned the inquisition on her. Perhaps he had not entirely lost his skills of espionage. Or perhaps he was just a sneaky Slytherin. Either way, a lot had gone unsaid. And he had come in the shop for a TV Guide; <em>just</em> a TV Guide. That had to be a signal that he also felt their conversation was unfinished, didn’t it? ‘Professor-’</p><p> </p><p>He screwed his eyes tight shut at that, the way he had yesterday when he’d almost called her ‘Miss Granger.’ ‘Please, <em>don’t</em>,’ he said, through slightly gritted teeth. ‘I’m nobody’s Professor. My name is… Severus.’ He looked at the floor as he spoke, still emanating nervousness.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry. S-Severus.’ It felt strange in her mouth, like it didn’t fit. He didn’t feel like her teacher anymore, too much time had passed, too much had happened, but it still felt somehow impolite. ‘There was much more I wanted to talk to you about yesterday,’ she admitted.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, finally looking up at her. ‘Yes.’</p><p> </p><p>She realised she was going to have to do most of the work. ‘Would you like to continue our discussion?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Would you?’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled. ‘Don’t answer questions with questions.’</p><p> </p><p>His lip quirked despite himself. He sighed. ‘Maybe,’ he said at length.</p><p> </p><p>‘Tomorrow, then? I have a shift at the hospital until six, but I could come after that. Quarter past six?’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded once, glancing down at the TV Guide in his hands. ‘I, err… best go see what’s on tonight then,’ he said, before striding out of the door.</p><p> </p><p>The bell tinkled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Beef and Tomato or Chicken and Mushroom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She was late. It was almost seven and there was still no sign of her. He’d considered that she might be using some form of notoriously unreliable Muggle transportation. He’d considered that she might have changed her mind. He’d considered that she might be dead in a ditch.</p><p> </p><p><em>Hope for the best, prepare for the worst</em>; this had always been Severus’s maxim and it had served him well.</p><p> </p><p>Indeed, he had spent the whole day sat in the same armchair he was sat in now, chewing on his fingernails and ruminating over every potential catastrophe that might befall him as a result of letting <em>her</em> - although it could have been anyone - into his life like this. He suspected this was an act of self-sabotage; he could not say that he was happy, as such, but there was contentment to be found in the stability, predictability, and routine he had adopted into his life since his release from prison last year and, undoubtedly, on some level, he didn’t feel like he deserved it. ‘It’s like you <em>want</em> to be punished,’ Minerva had once said to him, but even Severus had now begun to wonder when he’d feel like he’d received punishment enough, repaid his debts.</p><p> </p><p>So it was, that despite inviting her here being decidedly against his better judgement, he had given very little attention to the fact that he was at liberty to disinvite her any time he liked.</p><p> </p><p>He simply could not help himself. Like some will-o’-the-wisp, she was luring him off his chosen path. Like some siren, she was luring him into the rocks. It was her voice. This he knew. The vague familiarity it. Not from when he’d taught her, from another time. It’s comforting melody and rhythm. He heard it loudest when he closed his eyes in the dead of night; when everything else was soundless and dark, she was there. He was getting closer, but it was still beyond his reach.</p><p> </p><p>He had found himself, as the evening had drawn in, standing at the front window, twitching at the net curtains as he waited. It had only been for fear of giving the neighbours the wrong idea that he had forced himself, unwillingly, back into the armchair. He thought it rather impudent of her to be late. Rude even. But he’d always found her to be those things when she was at school. Then, in the next moment, he hadn’t been sure why he cared. When she did arrive – <em>if</em> she did arrive – he would inevitably let her in, and then not know how to talk to her. He would be short with her, and temperamental. He would say the wrong things and only provoke more questions.</p><p> </p><p>Cursing his lack of resolve, he was just about to head out to the back yard for a cigarette, to help calm his nerves, when there was a soft knocking at the front door. He was out of the armchair, into the hallway, and unfastening the latch on the door within seconds.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry I’m late,’ she breathed, panting slightly. He noted an altogether frazzled look about her as she shivered in the cool November air. ‘Hell of a shift. There’s been an outbreak of Scrofungulus at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. St. Mungo’s Magical Bugs ward is full, so some of the cases have been sent up to us. Very unpleasant. I stink of fungicide,’ she explained, and indeed she had brought with her a slightly medicinal odour.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right…’ he replied, screwing up his nose in distaste. ‘I do hope you haven’t brought your infectious disease to my house.’</p><p> </p><p>She issued him a withered look. ‘Of course not. I’m fully sanitised.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’d better come in then,’ he said, taking a rather theatrically large step backwards, to avoid too close a proximity, as she passed him across the threshold of number 7. He saw her smile at that.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced up and down the street again before closing the door, still not wholly convinced that this wasn’t some elaborate trap. When he turned back to her she was stood holding out her coat to him, which he took, unsure, and hung on the bottom of the bannister. He was unaccustomed to entertaining guests but nodding awkwardly in the direction of the living room saw her move through and sit in the same spot on the settee she had occupied yesterday.</p><p> </p><p>‘Did, err, <em>you</em> have a good day?’ she asked, fidgeting.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t quite gotten accustomed to this breezy way with which she spoke to him. It bordered on overfamiliarity. He certainly didn’t expect the courtesy afforded to teachers, but still, it was unnerving, perhaps not least because he thought he liked it. He considered how he’d spent his day, sitting in the armchair, chewing his nails. Worrying. ‘Is this a social visit?’ he asked, brusquely.</p><p> </p><p>She glared at him. ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said, sharply, ‘but that doesn’t mean we can’t be <em>pleasant</em> with one another.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hmph,’ he said, and with that they fell into an awkward silence. He observed her furtively, noticing how tired she looked. Not the kind of tired that is inevitably borne from long shifts at St. Valentine’s, but something more ingrained, more burdened, like she carried a weight of secrets. Her expression was neutral, but there was an immovable sadness in her eyes. He’d seen this at the shop, too, and when she’d come by the other day. Even on the rare occasions he’s seen her smile, like by the front door, it does little to assuage it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you want to smoke that?’ she asked after a moment, gesturing to the cigarette he realised he was still holding.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… no. Not in here. My mum would kill me,’ he winced as the words left him. He shoved the cigarette back into its box, tossed the box onto the mantelpiece, then sat with his lips pressed together to ensure nothing else fell out.</p><p> </p><p>‘Your mother?’ she asked, clearly tempering her curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>‘She doesn’t like me smoking in the house,’ he shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>‘You live with your-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-No. God no. I live alone. It’s just that it was my parents’ house… before. Old habits, that’s all.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… well, that at least accounts for the pinks and florals, I didn’t think they would be to your taste,’ she smiled, with a genuine and warm smile that made his insides twist and flutter furiously. He felt his own lips twitch, despite his best effort to remain stony-faced. ‘So, that’s why <em>you’re</em> here?’ she continued.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, that’s about as far as we got the other day. You asked me why I was here. I never really got to ask why you were here, in perhaps the most Muggle town in England, of all places. But you said you’d been shopping in the corner shop since before I was born and that this used to be your parents’ house, so I guess you grew up here?’</p><p> </p><p>He had to admire her skills of deduction. He could see why she had been invaluable to Potter all those years, essential, in fact, in that final year. He nodded slowly, approvingly, ‘unfortunately, yes,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Unfortunately</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’ve seen the place,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s grim.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But you came back?’ she pointed out.</p><p> </p><p>‘Free house.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-We’re not talking about <em>this</em>,’ he said, firmly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry,’ she said, earnestly, holding her hand out in front of herself apologetically. He swallowed and nodded once. ‘In fact,’ she began again, more carefully now, ‘I think I owe you another apology… it’s just, the night of the Final Battle, after you’d given Harry your memories, we… we just left you there, on the floor to… to die and-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Why wouldn’t you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘We thought you were dead,’ she explained, shakily.</p><p> </p><p>‘So did I. But regardless of that, why <em>wouldn’t</em> you just leave me there? What was I to you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You…’ she trailed off, looking somewhat pained.</p><p> </p><p>He knew it was an unfair question. The answer was that he was nothing to them; he was a means to an end, a small part of a much larger puzzle. ‘I was just a pawn in other players’ games,’ he said, hoping it would stop her looking at him so solemnly.</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s how you think of yourself?’ Her expression had altered to one of pity and he hated it.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t always. Dumbledore had made him feel like he was serving a real purpose. But Dumbledore was a liar. He shrugged in response to her question, wishing he’d had his cigarette after all.</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s not how others think of you,’ she said, quietly. ‘Harry feels a lot of… gratitude. He appreciates the sacrifices you made. He thinks what you did was the bravest thing. He knows if it wasn’t for you, things might have turned out very differently.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus needed Potter’s platitudes as much as he needed Granger’s pity. Anyway, if Potter could appreciate the sacrifices Severus had apparently made, then surely Potter could also appreciate that none of it would have happened in the first place if it wasn’t for Severus. ‘More fool him,’ he responded with a grimace.</p><p> </p><p>‘That seems unfair. Can’t you see how difficult it was for him undo all his thinking about you, all your… conditioning of him?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That just means I played my part well. Made a proper job of it.’</p><p> </p><p>She sighed, her tiredness suddenly more profound. ‘You’re proud? You were horrible to him. And what about the way you treated Neville Longbotton? Remus Lupin? <em>Me</em>, even?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Collateral,’ he shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>He saw a pinkness rise in her cheeks and a flash of anger and regret in her eyes. ‘Apathy towards us would have been just as effective to your end game. I think you would have been horrible regardless of what Dumbledore, or Voldemort for that matter, were expecting of you. I think you enjoyed it.’</p><p> </p><p>He was attempting to feign nonchalance, all the while knowing her words stung only because they were true. All his life he had craved power and control because all his life he had been someone else’s puppet, and then Dumbledore had put him in charge of children; he could easily make children snivel, cower, and fear him. It was deplorable; he knew it then as well as he knew it now. But it was also addictive. He was bitter, and he could blame his parents, he could blame being bullied by James Potter and Sirius Black, he could blame Lily turning her back on him, but ultimately, he knew it was caused by an ugliness within <em>him</em>, that no one else was the blame.</p><p> </p><p>‘Is this why you came here today? To criticise me?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, ‘I came here because I like to understand things.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You could <em>never</em> understand,’ he spat, sitting forward abruptly, which startled her. ‘You could never know what it was like. I almost died trying to protect Potter. What more do you <em>want</em> from me?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing,’ she said at length. ‘No one is denying that you made sacrifices, huge sacrifices. I think…’ she paused, looking sad and thoughtful. ‘I think I’d convinced myself that there was more to you than what we saw at school; not just that you were a double-agent, I mean, really more to <em>you</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And why would you think <em>that</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>She took a deep breath. ‘I’m beginning to wonder. Sorry, this hasn’t gone as I’d hoped it would. I think maybe I’ll go.’ She made to stand but then brought a hand to her head and murmured something before falling back heavily onto the settee. Severus thought she looked like she might be about to pass out. He remained still, and silent, in the armchair. ‘Sorry,’ she managed, after a few more deep breaths, ‘I haven’t stopped all day… didn’t have time for lunch… feeling a bit light-headed.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ he said, relieved, ‘you’re hungry?’</p><p> </p><p>‘A bit. It’s a bad habit; I forget to eat when I’m busy. I get a bit woozy, but I’m OK now.’ She made to stand again, still looking decidedly peaky.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do… Do you want something to eat?’ What was it about her that made words tumble unsolicited from his mouth? He shrank into himself, embarrassed.</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him, momentarily stunned. ‘That’s… no, thank you. I have a sugar quill in here somewhere.’ She began rummaging through her handbag and pulled out the distinctive pink and blue rapper of a sugar quill. She looked at him again; seemed to read him with those big, hazel eyes. ‘Although… perhaps something a little more substantial first wouldn’t hurt?’ she said, questioningly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, right… I mean… substantial? I don’t have much in. Just Pot Noodles, really.’</p><p> </p><p>She laughed at that; a soft, genuine laugh, which dissipated the rather sour atmosphere that had descended on them. ‘Why does that not surprise me!’ she said, ‘but I’d eat a scabby donkey right now.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded once and stood. She stood also and although he didn’t dare get too close, he waited nearby to make sure she was steady on her feet, before leading her out of the living room.</p><p> </p><p>It was not lost on him that Number 7 Spinner’s End was less than desirable real estate, but he suddenly felt very self-conscious of that fact as they made their way down the short hallway and entered the kitchen. He didn’t think much had changed in the kitchen since his parents had bought the place in the 1950s; the cupboards were a pale-yellow colour and although the countertops had once been white, they now tended towards a grubby grey. One of the upper cupboard doors was missing entirely, revealing the mismatched crockery within, and there was also a special knack to opening the cutlery drawer, which he had found still stuck on its runners no matter how many times you bashed it with a hammer. The exposed floorboards underfoot were stained with years of spilled cooking and there was a hole in the wall near the door, which his dad had caused during one of his rages.</p><p> </p><p>‘Beef and tomato or chicken and mushroom, then?’ he asked, pulling down two Pot Noodles out of a cupboard above the electric kettle.</p><p> </p><p>‘Which do you prefer?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t care.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Chicken and mushroom, then. Please.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, filling the kettle and flicking the switch before turning back face her, leaning back against the kitchen tops and folding his arms. She had stayed by the door. ‘You can sit down, you know?’ he said, indicating the chairs around the kitchen table.</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t use magic?’ she asked, taking a seat.</p><p> </p><p>‘Keen observation skills.’</p><p> </p><p>She sighed. ‘You can be very hard work. You do know that, don’t you?’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned. ‘What happened to being <em>pleasant</em> to one another?’ he said, mimicking her tone from earlier.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry, did you start being pleasant to me at some point this evening?’ she asked, before bursting into hysterics. ‘I think I missed it.’</p><p> </p><p>He gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘I offered you a Pot Noodle.’</p><p> </p><p>She laughed again and he had to close his eyes. Her laughter was worse than when she spoke; closer, somehow, to the cadence his subconscious was seeking. Then the kettle flicked off and his eyes snapped open. He filled both Pot Noodles with boiling water and placed the chicken and mushroom one in front of her with such ferocity that some of it sloshed out of the top and went all over the kitchen table. He groaned an apology and leant into a cupboard for the kitchen roll, although by the time he turned back she’d <em>scourgyfied</em> the mess with her wand.</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him then and her expression had changed. He tried to read it, hoping it wasn’t pitiful again. No, it was subtle, but it was something else. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised, with an earnest frown. ‘I wasn’t to laugh <em>at</em> you. You know you’re funny as well, yes? As well as being hard work.’</p><p> </p><p>He considered all of this to be unlikely but shook his head rigidly, not wanting to go back to arguing, and fell into the seat opposite her. He offered her a fork, which she took, and then he stabbed at his own Pot Noodle as he waited for it to soften.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t have a wand,’ he mumbled after long moment, glancing up at her.</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him too, through the steam rising from her noodles. ‘Oh,’ she said, with interest, ‘hence electric kettles and kitchen roll.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hence electric kettles and kitchen roll,’ he agreed.</p><p> </p><p>When she spoke again it was more tentative, like she was worried he might get angry again: ‘what happened to it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘The Ministry took it after the war. I was unconscious in the hospital wing-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-mm…’</p><p> </p><p>‘- and they took it so that… well, just so that I wouldn’t have it really. They took it as ‘evidence,’ they said.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Evidence of what?’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her pointedly. ‘The murder weapon.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>That</em>. But really, they wanted to use it as a bargaining tool; I could have it back if I gave them the information they sought. Then they obviously weren’t going to give it to me while I was in Azkaban and after Azkaban, well, I never went back for it. Maybe I can’t even have it back. It doesn’t seem right that a convicted murderer could walk the streets with a weapon so easily. I never even enquired after it though.’</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him again, a little stricken. ‘I couldn’t even imagine,’ she said, ‘I’d feel like I’d lost a limb.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You get used it,’ he lied, still stirring his noodles as they cooled. ‘I don’t need magic.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ she said, looking thoroughly unconvinced. She twirled some noodles around her fork and took her first bite. ‘Interesting,’ she mused, frowning as she considered the taste.</p><p> </p><p>Despite himself, he felt his lip curl. ‘Chicken and mushroom is the best flavour.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You could have had it!’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. ‘It’s fine,’ he assured her.</p><p> </p><p>They continued to eat in a silence which was disturbed only by the inelegant slurping sounds inevitable from two people eating Pot Noodles. When they’d both finished, he looked at her and then brought the plastic pot to his mouth to drain the sauce still left in the bottom. She grinned and copied him.</p><p> </p><p>‘That wasn’t bad, actually,’ she said, wiping her chin where she’d dribbled slightly. ‘Do you want to share my sugar quill, to make up for me having your favourite flavour of Pot Noodle. Sugar quills are <em>my</em> favourite, and I’m not usually one for sharing them.’</p><p> </p><p>He found himself agreeing to this and she snapped the sugar quill in half and handed him a piece. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten distinctly wizarding food; Azkaban had been all gruel and what they said was meat and vegetables. He could smell the sugar quill before he tasted it, a cloying sweetness that tickled his olfactory nerves, triggering something buried deep in his memory: <em>when she came she brought with her a certain smell, something he can’t place… sickly-sweet, on the tip of his tongue.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>‘Are you alright?’ she asked, frowning over at him.</p><p> </p><p>He realised he was holding the sugar quill to his nose and had had his eyes shut. ‘Fine,’ he said, finally biting into it. It crumbled in his mouth, far too sweet for his tastes.</p><p> </p><p>‘You can’t be entirely disillusioned by magic,’ she said then.</p><p> </p><p>He raised a questioning eyebrow in response.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, I’ve seen you Apparate, and that’s no easy feat without a wand, and you made me the hangover potion.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Apparating is just good sense,’ he explained, taking another bite of the sugar quill, although he wasn’t sure why as he wasn’t particularly enjoying it. ‘And a hangover cure doesn’t require wand magic, a cast iron cooking pot is as effective as a cauldron. I made it on the hob.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What about medicinal potions, after… the attack?’</p><p> </p><p>‘How would you know I need potions?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I, err… I’m training to be a Healer. Of course I have some understanding of what the bite from a creature like Nagini might mean for someone.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t take any medicinal potions.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But you should!’ She was looking at him wide-eyed again, her brow knitted with concern.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m fine,’ he lied. He couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she’d checked his records at the hospital, but he tried to convince himself that he was being paranoid.</p><p> </p><p>‘So… you’ve turned your back on the wizarding world entirely?’</p><p> </p><p>He tilted his head from side-to-side, noncommittally. ‘Well, that was the plan, yes. But…’</p><p> </p><p>‘But, what?’</p><p> </p><p>‘But, then there <em>you</em> were, in the corner shop, reeking of magic.’</p><p> </p><p>She laughed softly again and popped the last of the sugar quill in her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to infiltrate your world.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, I haven’t tried very hard to stop you, have I?’</p><p> </p><p>‘And why do you think that is?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s what I’ve been asking myself for the last two months.’ He finished his own bit of the sugar quill, vowing never to have another as it fizzled on his tongue. He shook his head, ‘I really don’t know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t miss it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘There are <em>things</em> I miss, <em>people</em> I miss, but… it’s easier this way.’ <em>Or it was</em>, he thought, <em>before you turned up</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘It sounds like you’ve made up your mind?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Very much so.’</p><p> </p><p>She issued him a small smile. ‘Then, I guess, I’ll leave you be. Thank you for the food.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… right,’ he said, an odd sinking in his abdomen. He stood quickly, picking up the empty Pot Noodles and sugar quill wrapper. He threw the used forks into the sink, causing a loud clatter, and discarded the litter in the bin with a bang of the lid, before turning back to her. She was stood watching him frowningly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, right. Well, I’m feeling much better now, so, I’ll be off. I suppose… I will still see you in the shop from time to time?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know,’ he replied, sounding petulant even to his own ears, ‘there <em>are</em> other places to buy cigarettes are Mars Bars,’ he added, recalling her words to him from yesterday.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded slowly. ‘Of course there are.’ Then she moved through the hallway and retrieved her coat from where he’d left it on the bannister earlier. ‘I’ll see you around then.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, see you around.’ He undid the latch and let her out, closing and bolting the door instantly once she’d left. Then he leaned against it, letting his head crash against the wood with a dull thud.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione stared at the closed front door of number 7 for a long moment. She could hear him moving around just beyond it, there was a curious dull thud.</p><p> </p><p>Stood out here now, in the cold and damp of Spinner’s End, it was almost impossible to believe that just a few minutes ago she had been sharing a sugar quill with Severus Snape. With a small, incredulous, shake of her head, she tucked herself deeper into her coat and set off on the walk back home.</p><p> </p><p>She had expected the snide and snarky remarks, she had expected his ill-temper, even, perhaps, his rudeness. What she had not anticipated was underlying timorousness interwoven throughout it all. He was as jittery as he was sullen; as fretful as he was testy. It was a mask of protection, she now realised.</p><p> </p><p>She had found herself wanting to talk to him more, it had been difficult to refrain from doing so, in fact. She presumed this was some residual habit from her time on the hospital wing, when she would visit and pour out her heart. She had contemplated telling him about her time on the hospital wing; not necessarily that she had helped care for him, certainly not that she would read her favourite books to him, but just that she had been there, had seen what he’d been through. There had also been that strange moment where he’d denied he needed medicinal potions. He must be lying, it was impossible that he didn’t. She only hadn’t mentioned it, in the end, because she thought it might embarrass him, scare him off. But then, she seemed to have done that in the end anyway.</p><p> </p><p>If there was one thing that tonight had convinced her of, it was that there certainly <em>was</em> more to Severus Snape than she could have predicted.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Later that night Severus lay in bed, the room tinted orange by the artificial glow of a streetlamp outside. There was something about the sugar quill, as though it was a part of the puzzle. Now, when he closed his eyes, he heard the voice and he tasted the sugar quill and he began to wonder… He couldn’t make the pieces fit, though. It was like missing something he had never had.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Foraging</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The marshes at dawn are painted with watercolours. A low mist cloaks the landscape, catching the light of the rising sun and casting the air with a dreamy, golden glow. A heron in flight is silhouetted against the brightening sky, the gentle lapping of water and rustle of the reeds on the cool breeze, all that breaks the silence.</p><p> </p><p>Amidst this tranquillity, Severus trudges along a mud path, tucked deep inside his winter coat and scarf, the ground frozen beneath his boots. His breath rises in plumes before him and his nose stings in the chilled air. He stops to rest by the edge of the water, sitting down on a tussock to catch his breath. He cannot walk so far anymore without growing tired; the Healers had prepared him for this, but that made it no less demeaning. At least out here no one was witness to his fragility. That was perhaps another part of why he liked it so much on the marshes, they provided a more complete anonymity than even Cokeworth could.</p><p> </p><p>They could not, however, provide respite from the plagues of his thoughts. It had been two weeks since he had been back to the corner shop.</p><p> </p><p>He peered into the plastic carrier bag he had brought with him. Incidentally, the bag was from the corner shop, it was one of the cheap kind with the handles prone to breaking, which concerned him given his bountiful forage this morning: hairy bittercress, dittany, sweet chesnuts, asphodel, bullace, and nux myristica. The marshes were a trove of potions ingredients.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It was not that he did not want to see or speak to her, indeed, if anything, he was desperate to. And equally desperate to disguise that fact.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was a shame, really, that he didn’t brew anymore, barring the exceptional hangover potion made in his mum’s old Le Crouset stew pot. Although, the act of foraging itself possesses its own beauty. Perhaps there was some primitive gatherer instinct at play, but it is more than that. It is the connectedness with nature, the pride that comes from self-sufficiency.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He stands across the street from the shop sometimes, staring at the entrance, willing his feet to carry him inside. But what was left to say, even if he does go in? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was his mum who first taught him how. She had taken him to the woods in Cokeworth and they had plundered them for berries and mushrooms. She’d shown him which ones were safe and which ones to avoid. Though, in those days, foraging had not been the leisure activity it was now; they would hunt for food when there was no money to buy any. The children they passed, on their way back home with their bountiful baskets, would laugh at them, ask them if they’d been begging or wanted the scraps out of their bins. His mum would grip his shoulder and urge him onwards with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.</p><p> </p><p><em>The voice and the smell belong together, he is convinced of it. He longs for them but there’s something else there now too, something he hadn’t noticed at first because the monotony of it had forced it into the background somehow; a </em>huff-puff-hiss<em> sound that makes his insides writhe with unease.</em></p><p> </p><p>Foraging requires patience and a keen eye. You needed to pay attention, maintain focus; one wrong move and, at best, you find yourself on the toilet for a few days, clutching an aching stomach, at worst, it’s the end of you. And when you’re concentrating on foraging, you’re not thinking about Hermione Granger or peculiar voices that drift through the night time. At least, you’re not thinking about them, until suddenly you are.</p><p> </p><p>He cursed under his breath and reached inside his coat pocket for his cigarettes. Flipping open the top of the box he is confronted by a jarring reality; there is only one left, he will <em>need</em> to visit the shop.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione studied the boy’s face with a look of deep concentration. Bringing the paint brush to his brow she added a final flourish of white face-paint. For his part, having been told that moving might ruin the final result, the child wore a rather solemn expression, which was making the audience of Harry and Ginny giggle behind Hermione’s back. ‘There,’ Hermione said, after inspecting her work one last time, ‘turn your hair black, and you’re done.’</p><p> </p><p>The boy opened his eyes and with a little shake of his head his mousy brown locks darkened to black. He turned to look at himself in the vanity mirror perched on Ginny’s dressing table, beaming at his now vampiric reflection. His face was ashen, save for an exaggerated widow’s peak and trickle of fake blood down his chin.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks, ‘Mione. Much better than when Uncle Harry tried!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve never been much of an artist,’ Harry admitted.</p><p> </p><p>‘You look positively terrifying, Teddy!’ Hermione confirmed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Come on then,’ Ginny said, ‘put on your cloak, Count Dracula, and let’s get going.’</p><p> </p><p>Teddy jumped down from the little stool he’d been sitting on and allowed Ginny to fasten the high-collared cloak around his neck, finishing his outfit.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione liked that her friends invited her to be a part of these moments. She never visited The Burrow anymore, feeling awkward about Ron around Molly, who still seemed unable to relinquish the idea of Hermione and Ron being together. She also lived away from everyone else, and was so busy with her seemingly never-ending studies. It could leave her feeling quite separate from everyone, sometimes, apart from them, or, least, aside from things. So, to be invited to take Teddy trick or treating with Harry and Ginny had been a pleasant surprise, even if it was just because Hallowe’en coincided with the day she was visiting St. Mungo’s that month.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A few moments later the little quartet made their way around Grimmauld Place; it was heaving with other children, all dressed up as various ghouls and monsters, knocking on neighbours’ doors and threatening them for sweets and chocolate. Ginny, who had never been trick or treating, hung back with Hermione, completely bemused, while Harry took Teddy to knock on doors and admire the decorations.</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry’s so good with him,’ Ginny said, chuckling as she watched the pair get spooked by a fake skeleton hidden in someone’s laurel bush. ‘He’s promised Teddy that he’ll grow up surrounded by people who love him; friends, family. That he’ll know his history, and where he fits in the world.’</p><p> </p><p>‘All the things Harry never had,’ Hermione mused. ‘That’s quite a noble endeavour, really.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ Ginny agreed, watching on thoughtfully as the neighbours fawned over Teddy’s Hallowe’en costume and handed over a pile of goodies. ‘Andromeda isn’t coping,’ she then said.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>But Ginny doesn’t get chance to respond as, at that moment, Harry and Teddy came back down the neighbour’s front path. ‘Good haul?’ Ginny said instead, sending a warning glance in Hermione’s direction which clearly says, “don’t say anything.”</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, loads,’ Teddy replied, showing Ginny the contents of the little plastic pumpkin he was using as a vessel for his Hallowe’en treats. Ginny and Hermione peered inside and made lots of affirmative noises.</p><p> </p><p>‘Let’s get back home and you can make a start on them, then,’ Harry suggested.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just what we need, him bouncing off the walls full of sugar,’ Ginny muttered to Hermione. When Hermione looked over at her friend she just shook her head in a small, dismissive gesture, this time clearly indicating, “forget it.”</p><p> </p><p>They walked back to number 12 and piled around the kitchen table where Teddy deposited the contents of his pumpkin while Ginny made them tea.</p><p> </p><p>‘I bet you’ve never tried half of this Muggle stuff, have you Ted?’ Harry asked, ‘Skittles, Freddos, Mars Bars, Rainbow Drops, Cadbury’s Buttons… you <em>have</em> got loads!’</p><p> </p><p>Teddy pulled open the top of the packet of Rainbow Drops and pulled out a few, which he dropped on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well?’ Harry enquired.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mmm,’ Teddy said, agreeably. Next, he opened the chocolate buttons and did the same.</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry… He’s going to be sick!’ Ginny began to protest.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s Hallowe’en, Gin. He’s fine,’ Harry said with a shrug.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione thought Ginny looked as though she wasn’t sure what difference Hallowe’en made; children got sick stuffing their faces full of sugar regardless of the day of the year. But she didn’t argue.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mini Mars Bar,’ Teddy read the packet of his next conquest before ripping it open. He bit into it and then instantly screwed up his face and ran to spit it in the bin. ‘Ew, nope!’ he said, coming back to join them at the table, ‘gross.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s not to like?’ asked Harry, picking up the half-eaten chocolate bar.</p><p> </p><p>‘That stuff inside,’ Teddy explained, pointing to the nougat. Harry shrugged and popped the rest of the Mars Bar into his mouth. ‘I’ve got two more,’ Teddy continued, ‘Ginny, ‘Mione, you want one?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks, Teddy, but I’m OK,’ Ginny said, sipping her tea.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, err… I’ll take them,’ said Hermione, thinking instantly of someone she knew would appreciate them. It had been three weeks since she had last seen Severus. He had not been into the shop when she was on shift, and she had not seen him around Cokeworth. There had been no chance encounters as he went about his weekly chores, his visits to the florist and green grocers. On her walk to and from work she would cast furtive glances at number 7 Spinner’s End to find no signs of life beyond the grey façade of the terraced house. He had simply disappeared, <em>again</em>, and Hermione was in no doubt that this was entirely intentional. Perhaps she might lure him out of hiding with a mini Mars Bar, she thought. ‘They’re not sugar quills,’ she said, ‘but I quite like a Mars Bar,’ she added.</p><p> </p><p>‘I love sugar quills,’ Teddy said, then, ‘Harry, can I Floo Nana and show her my costume before bed?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Course, you know how to do it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yep!’ the boy said, getting down from the table and heading into the front room where the fireplace was.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione looked between her two friends as the adults were left with a strange, prickly tension in the air.</p><p> </p><p>Harry gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m so pleased Andi allowed us to have Teddy tonight,’ he said then, with a pensive look in his eyes, ‘and that you came over Hermione. I was trying to explain to Ginny earlier, I don’t know why, but as I get older, the significance of Hallowe’en as “the day my parents died” becomes more and more intense. It never used to bother me when I was younger but I find myself quite preoccupied with the fact these days.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Harry,’ Hermione replied, apologetically. ‘It perhaps makes sense, though, that as you enter new stages of your life – getting engaged, maybe kids not so far off in the future, that sort of thing – that it’s inevitable you would become more reflective about things that you’ve lost or… things that might have been.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had always considered herself as typifying the Gryffindor trait of loyalty, she had prided herself on this, in fact. But even as she said these words to one of her dearest friends, her mind was elsewhere, on someone else who, it had just struck her for the first time, might also see Hallowe’en cast in a more sombre light. It felt like something of a betrayal to Harry, the way her mind had instantly wandered to Snape – no, <em>Severus</em> - like that, and even more of a betrayal that she suddenly desperately wanted to leave, to get back to Cokeworth and finally knock on his front door again. Harry had Ginny. Severus had no one.</p><p> </p><p>‘There probably is something in that,’ Harry agreed.</p><p> </p><p>‘I think you manage it very well, Harry, considering,’ Ginny said, quietly but warmly. ‘You have to surround yourself with people you love <em>and</em> who love you. Ever since the war I’ve been a proponent of this method of coping. It makes you more mindful, I always think, of what’s important in the here and now. Not that we should forget the past, the people we lost, but that by going on, we respect what they died for.’</p><p> </p><p>To Hermione, this seemed like a conciliatory effort on Ginny’s part after some of the earlier ill feeling, an apology for her earlier attitude towards Harry’s approach with Teddy. For his part, Harry seemed to accept it, at least he reached across the table and squeezed his fiancé’s hand, issuing her a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>All Hermione could think was that <em>Severus had no one</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Teddy came back a moment later and talk again turned to sweets and then work and then friends and then weddings and all the types of things young people in their twenties ought to preoccupy themselves with. It wasn’t until almost an hour later that Hermione finally found the opportune moment to extricate herself.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said, hugging Harry as she made her way to the door.</p><p> </p><p>‘See you soon,’ he said, then, turning to Teddy, ‘come on you! Bedtime,’ and he led the little boy upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>‘He really is very good with him,’ Hermione said, looking pointedly at Ginny once Harry was out of earshot.</p><p> </p><p>‘I know,’ Ginny replied wistfully. ‘He just overcompensates a bit.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It comes from a good place,’ Hermione reassured her. ‘And Gin? You know, don’t you, that if there’s ever anything I can do to help, with Teddy or anything, I mean, you just need to ask.’</p><p> </p><p>Ginny smiled and nodded gratefully. ‘Thanks, Hermione. It’ll all work out though, I’m sure. I’m just being silly.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus was on his second bottle of lager when the soft knocking came at the door. He had successfully evaded all trick or treaters tonight, with the exception of the three children who lived next door at number 9 who he always made special allowances for, and he was not about to start getting up and down to the door at this hour.</p><p> </p><p>Hallowe’en still had a way of making him feel hollow, a stark nothingness that churned his insides, even after all these years. After Apparating back from the marshes in the late morning, he had spent the day walking the streets of Cokeworth, visiting the places he had used to visit with <em>her</em>, with Lily. She rarely came down his end; she lived in the more affluent West side of the town where there were better transport links into the City and so it attracted commuters. It was decidedly middle-class over there, which had always left Severus feeling slightly out of place. He wouldn’t have put up with it if it hadn’t been for Lily. They used to spend most of their time in the park, sat talking on the swings, laid under a willow tree near the river, or wandering through the woods pretending sticks were wands. Those last couple of years, after he’d finally plucked up the courage to talk to her, but before they’d started Hogwarts, were perhaps the only happiness he had ever known.</p><p> </p><p>The knocking persisted.</p><p> </p><p>Part of him felt guilty for not feeling worse. The anniversary of his only friend, the source of his only happiness, being murdered and said murder being, most definitely, <em>his</em> fault, ought to stir some stronger emotions in him. It had once, it had consumed him for almost two decades. Now, perhaps, he was merely exhausted by it, had no more capacity for carrying it around with him. But it lingered as an aching numbness and, as such, it was better for everyone if he withdrew, even further, from the world on this particular night.</p><p> </p><p><em>Who could be </em>that<em> desperate for Hallowe’en treats</em>? He wondered vaguely as the knocking became a little louder.</p><p> </p><p>He’d usually managed to get through the feasts during his years as a teacher, contractually obliged as Head of House to do so, but then he would promptly retire to his quarters to drink his body weight in Ogden’s finest. Ogden’s, that was certainly one of the <em>things</em> he missed from the wizarding world, but tonight he contented himself with the bottles of Stella Artois he’d managed to buy on offer in Tesco a few weeks back.</p><p> </p><p>‘For God’s sake,’ he cursed under his breath, finally standing and striding through to the front door. ‘What?’ he growled, yanking it open to find Hermione stood on the other side. Suddenly he wished it <em>was</em> trick or treaters. ‘Oh, for fu-’</p><p> </p><p>‘- Hi. Sorry, I know you… <em>implied</em> that you didn’t want to see me again-’</p><p> </p><p>‘- Did I?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, yes… but… I suddenly realised what… what tonight is, and I didn’t like the idea of you being alone.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Tonight?’ he queried, avoiding her gaze and knowing full well what she was getting at. <em>Everyone knew.</em></p><p> </p><p>‘Look, I won’t stay long, but it <em>is</em> quite cold out here.’</p><p> </p><p>He groaned, rolled his eyes, more at himself than at her, for he could actually think of nothing he wanted more than for her to come in, and stood aside so she could pass. She hung her coat at the bottom of the bannister, just as he had done on her previous visit, and made her own way to the living room, where she sat in the same spot as before. He followed her in and perched on the edge of the armchair, refusing to get comfy and give her the impression she was welcome, even if she was. Sometimes he annoyed even himself with the contrary ways in which his brain worked.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s boiling in here,’ she said, indicating the electric fire, which he currently had turned up full.</p><p> </p><p>‘Too cold outside, too hot inside,’ he grumbled, standing up and twiddling the nob on the side of the fire. When he sat back down she was watching him with a small, bemused expression on her face. He shrugged it off. ‘I don’t like the cold,’ he said, offering no further explanation.</p><p> </p><p>‘We’ve missed you at the shop,’ she said, ‘sales of cigarettes and Mars Bars have gone down significantly. The owners have noticed their profits suffering.’</p><p> </p><p>He heaved a dry, false laugh. ‘Hilarious. Anyway, I told you I was cutting down.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Your eau de cigarette smoke suggests otherwise.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hmph,’ he grumbled, attempting to surreptitiously sniff at his t-shirt. ‘You’re here to insult me again?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, more softly now. ‘Genuinely, I came because I realised Hallowe’en might not be about dressing up and begging sweets off the neighbours for you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Is it about that for anyone over the age of ten?’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled again. ‘Probably not, but I still imagine it holds a more profound significance for you than most other people. I know it’s the anniversary of Lily’s death.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I thought I’d been clear I didn’t want to talk about her?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t really want to talk about her either,’ she said, ‘I want to talk about <em>you</em>. I came to see if you were OK?’</p><p> </p><p>How did it feel to have someone enquire after his wellbeing like this? He was unaccustomed to it, certainly. He felt heat rise in his cheeks; it was a little embarrassing. But there was something else, as well, something unfamiliar yet warming. He thought, perhaps, he welcomed it, though when he finally responded, his words didn’t belie this: ‘Why do you care? I’ve been dealing with this by myself for the last quarter of a decade just fine.’</p><p> </p><p>She looked unconvinced. ‘Our definitions of “fine” must be quite different.’</p><p> </p><p>She was impossible. He ‘<em>hmphed’ </em>again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she then said, rummaging about inside her handbag. He really hoped whatever she’d forgotten didn’t involve the mobile phone again. ‘I brought you these,’ she said, handing over two miniature Mars Bars, which he took. ‘They’re from Teddy Lupin’s trick or treating. Teddy is Remus and Nymph-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Yeah, I know who he is,’ he snapped, closing his eyes. He didn’t need reminding tonight of any other deaths, or orphans, for that matter, he held even partial responsibility for.</p><p> </p><p>‘OK!’ she said, apparently growing exasperated with his tone. ‘Well, he doesn’t like Mars Bars so he donated them to me and I, in turn, am giving it to you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What kind of person doesn’t like Mars Bars?’ he asked, smiling in an attempt to convey not only that he was joking but, hopefully, also that he was grateful.</p><p> </p><p>‘Teddy has great taste, he prefers sugar quills,’ Hermione said, smiling back at him in a way that made that warmth from before rise through him again. He scowled and looked away from her before opening one of the Mars Bars and popping the whole thing in his mouth at once. ‘I haven’t see you for a while,’ Hermione then continued, in a quieter, more serious tone.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he agreed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Have you been avoiding me?’</p><p> </p><p>He contemplated his words, deciding honesty would suffice at this juncture: ‘definitely… although, actually, I went to the shop earlier. You weren’t there.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you now?’ she smirked, ‘you came in the shop to see <em>me</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm, well… I ran out of cigarettes, but…’</p><p> </p><p>There was a strange glint in her eye. ‘So much for cutting down… anyway, I’ve been in London today, at St. Mungo’s, and visiting at Harry and Ginny’s,’ she explained.</p><p> </p><p>Minerva, or perhaps it was Poppy, had told him that Potter and Miss Weasley were together shortly after he’d awoken from his coma. He was mildly surprised, however, to learn that they had lasted the intermittent seven years; surprised anyone could put up with Potter that long. He wondered where the Lupin boy fit into the equation, but he wasn’t about to ask.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry you felt the need to avoid me before today though,’ Hermione spoke again, ‘I don’t want to be the reason you won’t go into your local shop or are looking over your shoulder when you’re walking down the street,’ she paused, perhaps expectantly, but he remained silent. ‘Look, I told you before, I’m only going to be here until July. I haven’t told anyone else that you’re here. We have this finite period of time in which to… <em>I-don’t-know-what</em>… but, there’s no reason why we can’t be civil with one another, maybe even… gosh, I don’t know, get to know each other a little. After all, whether we like it or not, we’ve shared some… unique experiences.’</p><p> </p><p>He considered this carefully, knowing how he wanted to respond, but unable to ignore that tugging resistance. He must ask himself why, after all this time, he might be willing to expose himself in this way.</p><p> </p><p>Her proposition, simple as it was, was not without risk; she was a window back into a world of darkness, of misery; the slope was a slippery one. He must ensure he is motivated by something other than mere curiosity this time. He must be sure, also, that this isn’t one of those acts of self-sabotage he is so prone to. He wonders whether it is companionship he desires; he can probably count on one hand the people he has had a proper conversation with in the last year. He had long been a solitary figure, but to what extent had this been through choice? As a child, he had longed for friends, for belonging. Bullies and his own pig-headedness had prevented that. It was also, at the very least, a contributory factor in his joining the Death Eaters. Then, he had not been much different as an adult, but there had been more pressing things to take up his time and attention. There is also the small matter of these strange sensations she evokes, the creeping warmth of familiarity, the longing for something incomprehensible to him. To understand <em>this</em> is more than curiosity. It is <em>necessity</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He took some deep, steadying breaths. ‘You’ll be gone in July?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll be gone in July.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then… alright,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘But… you must stop plying me with Mars Bars.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I can agree to those terms.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He’s back in the shop the next day, looking a bit unsure of himself as he nods his greeting and remarks upon the terrible weather they’re having at the moment. The small talk makes her smile, though she hides it, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. The weather <em>is</em> awful, she agrees, as she rings up his purchases.</p><p> </p><p>Over the next six weeks, they fall into something of a rhythm.</p><p> </p><p>She catches him buying flowers again, he stops to talk to her from behind them, but he’s silent on the matter of who they are for. Instead, they discuss a spate of muggings in and around Cokeworth. He tells her, quietly, to be careful. She assures him she will, and reminds him she carries her wand.</p><p> </p><p>Another time she catches him picking sloe berries from a blackthorn bush near the cemetery. It’s early in the morning, the sun just peeking out from behind the factory chimneys, and she’s just Apparated back to Cokeworth after a night shift at St. Valentine’s, heading home for a quick nap before she’s due at the shop in the afternoon. She asks if she can try one and he tells her she’ll regret having one raw but he’ll make her some gin with them. If she likes gin, of course. She does, she tells him, and she’d love that. He gives her a wonky smile and she can feel his eyes on the back of her head as she walks away.</p><p> </p><p>Then she can’t help but wonder if he’s learned her shift patterns by heart; he’s often stood smoking on his front door step when she passes Spinner’s End on her way home from work. She hadn’t seen him there before Hallowe’en, but now it’s not infrequent. It’s cold too, she notes, and he hates the cold, he said so himself, so why else would he stand out there if not to see her? Although, sometimes the woman from next door at number 9 is there too, her toddler perched on her arm, talking incessantly. Not that Severus seems to mind. Hermione wonders about the flowers again as she waves coyly from across the road and he nods singularly in her direction.</p><p> </p><p>‘This music must do your head in,’ he said, coming into the shop three days before Christmas. ‘This song was on yesterday when I was in here.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It does, and it is just the same five songs on repeat,’ she agreed, ‘and when I’m not here they’re stuck in my head,’ she added, remembering how <em>Step Into Christmas</em> had whirled around her brain all last night, stopping her getting to sleep despite how exhausted she was. ‘What, err, do you do for Christmas?’ she asked then, tentatively. So far, they seemed to have developed some unspoken rules that dictate what topics are off limits and she wasn’t sure if this line of questioning wasn’t overstepping the mark. Despite the easy repartee into which they have fallen, she still didn’t really know anything about Severus Snape that she hadn’t known at Hallowe’en. They never talk about anything <em>real</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He narrowed his eyes, apparently debating whether or not he should answer and she was filled with regret until he spoke, looking down at the floor now: ‘I’ll, err, probably visit my mum in the morning,’ he said, quietly, ‘and then, I dunno…’*</p><p> </p><p>‘So, you’ll be on your own?’ she asked, filing away that titbit about his mum for later, maybe.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he muttered, with a slight shift of his shoulders that might have been a shrug. ‘You?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m going to… some friends’ for Christmas dinner,’ she explained, feeling strange describing Monica and Wendell that way, ‘but… I’d be free in the evening if… if you maybe wanted to… have a drink, or something?’ She felt ridiculous.</p><p> </p><p>‘I think… yes, alright then,’ he said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Firstly, I had thought it was canon that Cokeworth was near Manchester, but upon further research (i.e. Googling it) I have learned this is not the case. Anyway, as it has for so long been in my head that Cokeworth is near Manchester, it is now immovable, which brings me to my second point. When I first uploaded one of my other stories, In Half-Light and Shadows, onto FF.net I got comments saying that they didn’t think Snape would speak as colloquially as I had written him; he wouldn’t say “dunno,” for instance. Personally, I have a hard time believing that Snape wouldn’t talk like this. People who grow up in working class families in Manchester (or, indeed, the Midlands where canon Cokeworth apparently is) don’t talk with perfect RP accents (like The Queen). My headcanon is that Snape’s accent and dialect aren’t dissimilar to Noel Gallagher’s, or somebody like that. Snape’s years at Hogwarts might have done something to diminish this, as well as a potential desire to distance himself from his past or present himself in a certain way to others, but fundamentally, he’d have a regional accent and dialect, and he’d abbreviate “don’t know” sometimes! As an aside, I imagine Lily would have had a subtler version of this accent too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Lost Year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was no snow at Christmas. There never was. Instead, a persistent grey drizzle blanketed the Somerset Levels, lending a dreary backdrop to the festivities within Withy Copse Farm. Wendell had found a spruce somewhere on the land and brought it inside, leaving a trail of needles through the hallway and into the living room that no one had bothered to clean up.</p><p> </p><p>The tree was now propped in the corner of said living room, too big for the space, really, and adorned with a gaudy mismatch of baubles and tinsel. Hermione sat beside it on the settee, in front of the fire with her knees tucked up, a copy of <em>I Capture the Castle</em> open on her lap. It was a new copy of the book; <em>this year’s</em> copy of the book. Although he had no recollection of it, every Christmas for the past six years, Wendell had bought Hermione a new copy of <em>I Capture the Castle</em>, telling her it had been recommended to him by the little girl he saw in his memories, the one with big brown eyes and a mane of curls.</p><p> </p><p>They had gotten through present opening in the morning without incident. Hermione had bought them diaries, journals, and calendars, everything they could need to try and bring some organisation to their lives, despite knowing these things would likely be lost in the clutter before the New Year. Afterwards, Hermione had shooed Monica out of the kitchen so that she could cook Christmas dinner herself with the aid of magic; Monica’s scattiness was not conducive to cooking anything so elaborate as Christmas dinner, it would only leave them eating the charred remains of what should have been quite the feast. They had sat in the cramped little kitchen, wearing silly paper hats and laughing and joking like they’d used to. <em>Almost</em> like they’d used to.</p><p> </p><p>Her parents had always made sure Christmas was special when Hermione was a child. The buildup was almost more fun than the day itself; with caroling, school Nativity plays, Christingle, and Midnight Mass. Then, if she was being honest, she’d have to admit she was spoiled. There’d been mountains of presents, many of them books of course, and the house filled with family and friends and laughter and joy. Hermione wondered where those friends might be now, how they’d come to terms with losing her parents too.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione was just considering this when she heard a strange noise, like a wounded animal, coming from just outside the room. He first instinct was that it was Crookshanks, who she allowed to live on the farm with Monica and Wendell under the pretext that he would prefer the countryside to Cokeworth, when really she enjoyed the idea that Crooks was watching over Monica and Wendell, looking out for them. She wasn’t sure what she expected a half-kneazle to do if Wendell had one of his turns, but still, it helped a little to think he was here with them.</p><p> </p><p>She closed her book and padded across the room to inspect the source of the din. Peering around the living room doorframe, she saw Wendell sat at the bottom of the stairs, his head in his hands as he sobbed fat tears.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Wendell,’ she said, moving to his side. She had been watching him carefully since she’d arrive at the farm yesterday afternoon. He’d had a frenetic aura about him all that time, like he might be building towards an eruption like this. Christmas was always a particularly triggering time for him. He saw the girl everywhere, it seemed, at this time of year. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’</p><p> </p><p>His body was wracked with a few more sobs before he could answer. ‘She’s all alone,’ he sniffed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Who?’ she whispered, suspecting she knew the answer.</p><p> </p><p>He reached out then and took Hermione’s cheek in his hand, turning her face so they were looking into each other’s eyes. ‘You look just like her, you know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes?’ Hermione said, unable to keep the eagerness out of her voice. She had been here before with him, while he teetered on the edge of revelation.</p><p> </p><p>He watched her for a moment longer with haunted, tear-filled eyes, and then released her, almost abruptly, as he slumped back against the stairs. ‘She needs me,’ he then whispered, ‘she needs me. She needs her dad.’</p><p> </p><p>This was new, him recalling himself as the girl’s father. Hermione searched for the words to prompt him further, but knew what the cost of a misstep might be. ‘She’s not alone. She knows you’re there too,’ she said, watching him carefully.</p><p> </p><p>‘But who is she?’ he asked, more to himself, than Hermione. It seemed the moment of recognition had passed, fleetingly. ‘I know her, and yet… she is a ghost.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ Hermione found herself saying, resignedly, for the girl he saw <em>was</em> a ghost, really. More than some mere figment of his imagination, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Now, silent tears slid down his cheeks and Hermione was grateful for Monica’s sudden appearance from out of the kitchen. ‘Oh, Wendell,’ Monica said, sympathetic if not slightly exasperated. Hermione stood so Monica could sit beside her husband, where she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and they rested their heads together, Wendell still weeping.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione felt her bottom lip tremble and made her way to the kitchen. She needed to get away from them; not only would it not do them any good to see <em>her</em> like this, but she couldn’t bear to be around them when they were like this either. It was terribly selfish. This, Hermione knew. But she hated the powerlessness, the futility, the sadness – the profound sense that it was all her fault - that they evoked in her. She wanted to be with them, wanted to be able to provide comfort, but she didn’t know how. They were strangers to one another, really.</p><p> </p><p>After downing a glass of cold water, she composed herself and made her way back to the living room, where Wendell was now sat watching a repeat of a <em>Father Ted</em> Christmas special, laughing as though the episode at the bottom of the stairs had never happened. Monica sat beside him, still holding his hand. Clearly <em>she</em> still remembered what had happened. Looking at Monica now, Hermione realised she looked tired and old all of a sudden; she could make even less sense of Wendell’s turns than Hermione could.</p><p> </p><p>‘I think I’m going to head off,’ Hermione announced.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s still early,’ Monica replied, ‘you know you can stay over.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know. Thank you. I said I’d spend the evening with a… friend.’ Just as it had felt strange describing Monica and Wendell as “friends” to Severus, so too it felt strange describing Severus as such.</p><p> </p><p>‘Very well,’ Monica said, releasing Wendell and getting her feet. ‘Well, you’re not going without taking some leftovers with you.’ As was only right at Christmas, there was an excess of food, which Monica dished up into Tupperware boxes for Hermione to take home with her.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’ll call me, won’t you, if there’s any more problems?’ Hermione said, as she got bundled up ready to face the weather.</p><p> </p><p>‘I have your number?’ Monica asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, Mon! Saved in your phone!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Where <em>is</em> my phone?’ Monica asked, patting her pockets.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione took her own phone out of her pocket and called Monica’s number. The ringing came from the back pocket of the older woman’s trousers. ‘There you go.’ At this stage Hermione just wanted to leave, didn’t think she could stand a minute more of it. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said, brushing a kiss against Monica’s cheek, picking up her bags of food, and heading down the lane towards the Apparation point.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>There was a knock on the front door. A knock he now recognised to be <em>her</em> knock; gentle but assertive. <em>Just as she was</em>. He groaned at himself as he stood to let her in.</p><p> </p><p>‘Merry Christmas,’ she trilled, beaming at him. <em>She’s overcompensating</em> <em>for something</em>, was his first thought, <em>no one is that cheerful. Not even at Christmas</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She was wrapped up in a big winter coat, hat, scarf and gloves, all purple, and she was laden with two big bags-for-life, filled with God’s knows what.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he murmured, standing aside so she could pass into the house before he completed his cursory check of the street to ensure she hadn’t been followed.</p><p> </p><p>‘What was that?’ she asked, still smiling as she took off her coat and hung it on the bannister.</p><p> </p><p>‘I said “Merry Christmas,”’ he lied.</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s what I thought.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded his head in the direction of the living room to indicate she ought to go through. She picked up the bags she’d brought and made her way in that direction. Immediately upon entering the living room, however, she suddenly stopped walking, causing him to almost hit into the back of her. He felt a frisson of energy as they came within a whisker of touching one another.  ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed, ‘were you having beans on toast for your Christmas dinner?’</p><p> </p><p>He peered over her shoulder at where she was looking; the side table beside the armchair where he had, indeed, discarded his plate of beans on toast the moment she had knocked on the door. ‘There’s nothing wrong with beans on toast,’ he argued.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, moving into the room and placing her bags on the floor by the green settee before sitting down. ‘There isn’t, usually, but surely even you can see the tragedy of it on Christmas day?’</p><p> </p><p>By way of response, he shrugged and threw himself into the armchair with a huff.</p><p> </p><p>‘Here,’ she continued, unperturbed. He watched her begin removing plastic Tupperware boxes from one of the bags she’d brought with her. Each, it appeared, was filled with a different type of food. ‘You can consider this my Christmas present to you.’</p><p> </p><p>He watched her pull out the last of the Tupperware boxes then take the plate of half-eaten beans on toast, vanish the food and <em>scourgify</em> it, before beginning to pile it with Christmas dinner; turkey, stuffing, sprouts, cranberry sauce, roast parsnips, mash potato. His two criteria for mealtimes usually being convenience and sustenance, try as he might to be annoyed with her for swooping into his home and taking over his evening plans like this, he couldn’t quite summon it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten such a substantial meal as this. <em>Or</em> the last time he had good company, he thought, before quickly dismissing it. He could feel himself salivating and swallowed eagerly as she added pigs in blankets, cauliflower cheese, and carrots. Finally, she poured on gravy, then heated it with a charm and handed it back to him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, I didn’t get <em>you</em> anything,’ he said, sticking his fork into a parsnip.</p><p> </p><p>She laughed, and he ignored the way it made his insides jitter. ‘I didn’t expect you to,’ she said, sitting back on the settee and making herself more comfortable, ‘did you, err… see you mum earlier?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he mumbled, affirmatively, through a mouthful of mash. He could feel her watching him from across the room, asking for more details without actually saying it. He thought, maybe if he was careful, he could tell her a little more. He took a few more bites of food and washed it down with a mouthful of his beer, for courage. When he glanced back up at her she was wearing a small, encouraging smile. He inhaled to steady himself. ‘She lives in a care home, in Didsbury,’ he said, at length.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Is she… OK?’</p><p> </p><p>‘She’s old and she has some, err, memory issues. Quite significant ones.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry to hear that. Can they help her at all, with memory charms, or potions?’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. ‘It’s a Muggle place, and anyway, there are benefits to not remembering some things.’ He’d pulled a cracker with his mum today and read her the terrible joke inside. He couldn’t say for sure that she had properly understood it, but she had laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the world. She had laughed until there were tears in her eyes and her sides had ached. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that in a long time, didn’t know, really, if he had ever known her to laugh like that. He had laughed too, a moment of mutual joy, so many of which had been stolen from them.</p><p> </p><p>He looked over to find Hermione frowning at him contemplatively. ‘I suppose that could be true,’ she said, sadly, and he suspected she was thinking of something, or someone, other than <em>his</em> mother. ‘You seem to have quite a bit of disdain for Muggle things,’ she said after a moment, ‘despite your insistence on living like one, so I’m a little surprised you put your mum in a Muggle care home?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t <em>put</em> her anywhere,’ he said, perhaps a little too snappy. Then, with a more even tone, ‘she’s well looked after. Happy, even, in her own way.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione nodded, apparently, and thankfully, sensing that this was all he was willing to say on the matter for the time being. They fell into silence again as he finished up his meal, but it was no longer the awkward silence, punctuated by his glares and her exasperated sighs, it was something approaching companionable.</p><p> </p><p>‘That was… <em>delicious</em>,’ he said, mopping up the last of his gravy with a piece of turkey before putting the empty plate on the side table and sitting back in the chair with a satisfied sigh. ‘Thank you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s dessert,’ she said, with a grin, beginning to reach back into one of the bags.</p><p> </p><p>‘No, thanks. I’m stuffed… thank you, though.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And thank <em>you</em> for telling me about your mum. In almost four months it’s the first real thing I’ve learned about you.’</p><p> </p><p>He realised it had felt nice to tell someone, to share a little of the burdens he carried. A novel experience indeed, although he didn’t understand why it was <em>her</em> he was telling. ‘Your turn now, I think,’ he then said, struck suddenly by an idea.</p><p> </p><p>‘Excuse me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve told you something <em>real</em>, as you say, about myself. I think it’s only fair you return the favour.’</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him through narrow, suspicious eyes. ‘Although I don’t appreciate your Slytherin tactics, I will concede that I like the idea of us talking more. But, if we’re going to do that, then there has to be rules… do you want to play a game?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I doubt it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hear me out. We take turns to ask each other questions. Questions about <em>real</em> things. If we don’t want to answer, that’s fine, but we must drink – I presume you have something we can drink? – and if we can’t answer honestly, we must drink. <em>But</em>, we can’t drink twice in a row, so think hard before making your decision. It’s fun!’</p><p> </p><p>Severus sincerely doubted that, but he smirked in spite of himself. He had immediately recognised the game for what it was: a situation easily manipulated to his own advantage. Once you knew the rules, it was usually easy to do this. The first questions should be something innocuous, to lure her into a false sense of security, perhaps throw her off a little in terms of the trajectory of the questions to come. Then he ought throw in something so outrageous, there was no chance she would answer it. Then must come the thing he really wants to know, for she will have no choice but to answer it. The cycle could even be repeated as many times as they played. The real challenge would arise from what questions she might ask him, but Severus Snape could hold his liquor.</p><p> </p><p>First, though, he must continue his false protestations, which would lend to the idea that this was all her idea, that she had cajoled him into it and therefore must face the consequences. ‘Why does it have to be a drinking game?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Because it’s Christmas. We shall be merry and bright!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t think that’s what that means! Look, we’re neither celebrating our coming of age nor are we students. They’re the only people who can get away with playing drinking games.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Technically,’ she said, with a bemused tone, ‘<em>I</em> am a student. And <em>you</em>, well, you certainly have the diet of a student, with your Pot Noodles and beans on toast.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, well, in that case…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that a “yes?”’ she asked, with a hopeful look. He rolled his eyes which she took, as was intended, as assent and grinned, which only caused that jittering of his insides again. ‘Do you have anything to drink, something stronger than beer?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sloe gin?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Perfect. You’d promised me some of that anyway.’</p><p> </p><p>He stood to fetch the sloe gin he’d been making, and two tumblers, from the kitchen. He filled both glasses with a shot of the amber liquid and sniffed at one. ‘Oh,’ he exclaimed. ‘Quite potent!’</p><p> </p><p>She sniffed her own drink and recoiled a little with her nose scrunched up. ‘Very! Only makes the game more high stakes! So, my first question is-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Hang on, hang on,’ he interrupted her, ‘I shall go first, because you are already indebted to me.’ He paused to take a deep, thoughtful breath. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s not a <em>real</em> question!’ she scoffed, ‘but, it’s purple.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s very real. You can tell a lot about a person by their favourite colour.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that so? OK. My turn,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see… Ah, yes. Who do you buy flowers for every week?’</p><p> </p><p>Much to her surprise, judging by her expression, he laughed heartily. ‘That’s a bit of a wasted question. They’re just for my mum. Sorry if you were expecting a more… <em>salacious</em> answer.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Damn,’ she cursed, disappointedly, ‘I think I should get another turn.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Absolutely not,’ he protested, ‘the rules – <em>your</em> rules – were very clear: we take turns. So, my next questions is: what is your favourite… cuisine?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mexican,’ she said, promptly. ‘But, you’re not playing properly,’ she said, with a small pout. ‘Your trifling questions won’t stop <em>me</em> asking things I really want to know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe I’m building to something,’ he suggested. ‘Your turn.’</p><p> </p><p>She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘One thing I’d really like to know,’ she said softly, ‘is why you stay in <em>this</em> house, where you grew up. I know you said before that it’s free because it was your parents’, but… it must be hard, staying here, surrounded by… the most awful memories. You could easily sell it, move somewhere more… pref-’</p><p> </p><p>Before she’d even had chance to finish he had picked up his glass and downed the contents in one mouthful. He refilled his glass, flashing her a warning glance not to continue with this line of questioning. Why did <em>everyone</em> have to know? The answer was predictable, he thought, and if Hermione thought about it for long enough, she’d probably be able to work it out for herself. He stayed here because <em>his</em> Lily was here. Not the Lily he had lost to Potter – no, not the Lily he had lost because he chose The Dark Arts instead, he corrected himself – but the Lily he had known before any of that. She was on the streets he trod, in the woods where he sometimes foraged, and it could have been her laughter in the park when he walked by the swings. He might have sworn, when he was in Azkaban, that he wouldn’t return, but, as always, thoughts of Lily had compelled him.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione closed her mouth, stifled. Her cheeks had flushed slightly. ‘S-sorry,’ she stammered, apparently realising she’d touched a nerve. ‘I didn’t mean to… change the tone of things. Can we continue?’</p><p> </p><p>He eyed her warily then emptied his glass with a gulp, this time just for courage, and refilled it again. ‘OK…’ he said, composing himself and trying to buy time to think carefully about his next question. He needed her to drink this time so that his next question would have to be answered. He recalled her behavior after she’d received that phone call all those months ago when she’d first visited him; her red-rimmed eyes, her flushed complexion, her frantic exit from the house. Not that he didn’t want to know who had called her that day, caused her to be so upset, there were just more pressing matters for now. ‘OK… that first time you came here, who called you on your mobile?’</p><p> </p><p>She narrowed her eyes at him. For the briefest of moments she looked as though she might have been considering answering, then she picked up the tumbler, swilled the contents, and downed it in one mouthful.</p><p> </p><p>He issued her a satisfied smirk.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sensing some sort of strategy,’ she said, refilling her glass.</p><p> </p><p>‘That would be very underhanded of me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Very <em>Slytherin</em> of you, you mean? Anyway, my turn… I know. Why didn’t you accept Scholastic Sanctuary?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Hmm… How do you know about that, then?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I…’ she paused, with a small shake of her head, ‘no, <em>I’m</em> asking the question,’ she said firmly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fair enough. I didn’t want to end up stuck at Hogwarts for the rest of my life, beholden to whoever was headmaster or headmistress, always wondering whether today might be the day their generosity expired. It was its own kind of prison, in the end.’ As he was saying this he thought about the last question she’d asked and wondered whether, really, living at Spinner’s End, entrenched in, as she’d said, the most <em>awful</em> memories, wasn’t its own kind of prison too. He hated that she made him think about things differently.</p><p> </p><p>‘That makes sense,’ she said, looking at him so sadly that he had to look away from her. ‘Your turn.’</p><p> </p><p>‘OK,’ he said, feeling better now his plan was coming together. ‘What I really want to know, is where your missing year went; why didn’t you qualify as a Healer last year, like you should have?’</p><p> </p><p>She picked up her tumbler to drink.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ah, <em>the rules</em>!’ he reminded her, ‘you said-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Ugh! Yes, I know the rules,’ she complained. ‘We can’t drink twice in a row. I see I have been completely played!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he smirked.</p><p> </p><p>She groaned with exasperation. ‘Alright, alright! I… I failed one of my final exams,’ she answered, in little more than a whisper. She drank her drink anyway.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>You</em>?’ he exclaimed, snorting incredulously. ‘God! I bet you’ve still not recovered!’ He looked over then to find her watching him with a stricken expression, her bottom lip between her teeth as though to stop it from quivering and her eyes filled with unspilt tears. His stupid grin faded when he met her gaze. ‘It’s just an exam,’ he murmured, thoroughly perplexed at her apparent overreaction. At that, she shook her head and burst into tears. This was decidedly out of his comfort zone and he felt himself freeze in the armchair, watching as she held her head in her hands and her body was wracked with sobs.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, God. Sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘So, embarrassing. I haven’t had the best day and the gin’s gone straight to my head.’</p><p> </p><p>He swallowed. ‘Are you OK?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ she said, then, ‘yes,’ with more assurance the second time. She sniffed. ‘It was a Potions exam, you know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Really? I always found you to be quite proficient at Potions.’</p><p> </p><p>She laughed at that, another genuine, warm laugh, that fought through her tears. He found that he quite enjoyed that he’d caused this laugh. ‘High praise indeed from you!’ she chuckled. ‘No, it was after Slughorn took over from you in sixth year. He was…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Useless. You have to wonder why he agreed to stay on teaching after The War when he clearly had no interest in it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ she said, emphatically, ‘that’s exactly it, <em>exactly</em> what I was going to say! How did you know?’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew he did know. He had an impossible sense of déjà vu. Then, in the next instance, something else came to him: ‘At least you learned something, when I taught you, even if I was a nasty piece of work.’ The memory of these words being spoken, for he was certain it was a memory, had drifted to him as if on the wind.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’ she said, looking over at him quizzically.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t realised he’d said it out loud. ‘Did you <em>think</em> that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I, err… maybe… at the time-’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, I mean, just now? I have no doubt you thought it at the time. But, <em>just now</em>, were you thinking those words?’ He felt a little frantic. He wondered whether he’d accidentally used Legilimens on her, although he thought it unlikely given his slight inebriation and how out of practice he was.</p><p> </p><p>‘I… don’t think so,’ she replied, looking a little worried for him.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, trying to get rid of a strange buzzing that had filled his ears. ‘That was really weird, it was like I could hear <em>you</em> saying those words but inside <em>my</em> head…’ He paused because an impossible thought had struck him. No, it wasn’t possible, he reminded himself…</p><p> </p><p>‘Perhaps it’s just intuition,’ she said, interrupting his thinking, ‘mingled with a bit of drunkenness. Slughorn taught you too, didn’t he?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err, yeah,’ he murmured, coming back to his senses slowly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe you just feel the same way. That he was useless.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe.’</p><p> </p><p>An uncomfortable silence descended on them then, all the more acute because it was the first real awkwardness of the evening. Even her crying hadn’t felt so uncomfortable as this.</p><p> </p><p>‘I believe it’s my question,’ Hermione said at length, quietly, as though testing the waters. When he gave no indication that she shouldn’t, she continued: ‘well… what’s <em>your</em> favourite colour?’</p><p> </p><p>He managed a small smile. ‘Green,’ he answered, honestly. ‘But not because it’s Slytherin’s colour, before you tell me how predictable I am.’ <em>Or because it was the colour of Lily’s eyes</em>, he thought to himself. ‘I like it because it’s the colour of nature. I like… trees, and fields, and deep lakes… and being out in all that.’</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes widened, surprised, perhaps. ‘I like that,’ she said, smilingly. ‘And you’re right, look, someone’s favourite colour can tell you a lot about them.’ She looked down at her gin and then over at his partly filled glass. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, raising her tumbler.</p><p> </p><p>He sat forward in his chair and reached across so their glasses clinked against one another. ‘Merry Christmas.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Although Hermione hadn’t quite seen it creeping up on them, it was the early hours of the morning when she finally concluded she ought to go home. After the game, which had perhaps gone a little awry, they’d chatted about more general things. She found Severus easy company, but the thought of that in itself was complex and confusing. It was difficult to reconcile that the man sat in the floral armchair before her was the same man who had mocked her teeth in fourth year, and when she reminded herself of this, she was filled with a hot fury, like she was being duped. She expended a lot of energy trying to keep such thoughts at bay.</p><p> </p><p>Both of them quite tipsy, he had insisted on walking her home. ‘We were talking just the other day about muggings around here and, anyway, you’ve had too much to drink to be Apparating. I don’t want to deal with a splinching incident at this time of night,’ he’d said, ‘and I don’t think my mother would appreciate blood all over her living room carpet either.’</p><p> </p><p>And, so, he had walked her the few streets from his house to hers. The rain clouds had cleared and it had turned into a cold, crisp night. A gibbous moon cast Cokeworth in an eerie silver light, the sky dotted with stars. He’d lit a cigarette as they’d left Spinner’s End, walking a few feet away from her so she didn’t have to breathe in his second-hand smoke. They didn’t speak much now, but it wasn’t awkward, she noted.</p><p> </p><p>‘You know,’ she said, as they reached the end of her street. ‘I’ll have to sit that exam again in July.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s memory potions.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Notoriously difficult.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If I only I knew someone who was <em>more than</em> proficient at brewing, who might be able to help me practice for it…’ She’d been smiling as she said this but it faltered when she looked up to see that he had stopped walking and was looking at her with a pained expression.</p><p> </p><p>‘Absolutely not,’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why not? It could be your Christmas present to me!’</p><p> </p><p>‘You said you had no expectations of a Christmas present,’ he reminded her.</p><p> </p><p>‘You could just do it because it would be a nice thing to do.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at his feet, sighed deeply, and then looked back at her regretfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I absolutely will not do it.’</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Not Like That</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Not like that!’ Severus snapped, practically snatching the knife from her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t you get sick of saying that?’ Hermione asked, tired, and frustrated at being spoken to in that waspish manner of his, of being criticised, seemingly, for the way she breathed.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Yes</em>,’ he sniped, through gritted teeth, ‘it would, of course, be preferable if you would get these basic things right the first time!’</p><p> </p><p>He had probably been right, she now realised: this had not been a good idea.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had awoken on Boxing Day* with a throbbing headache, foul taste in her mouth, and a strong suspicion that, following his outright refusal to tutor her in Potions, Severus would begin avoiding her again. She had showered, dressed, eaten breakfast (although it was closer to lunchtime), and resolved that she would not let that happen. She had no intention of haranguing him about helping her with her studies; if he didn’t want to, she couldn’t force him. But, she reluctantly acknowledged, she would miss him now if he were to disappear from her life again. That ease with which she had found she could talk to him in the hospital wing had returned, though with new meaningfulness now he could respond.</p><p> </p><p>She had been banging on the front door of number 7 Spinner’s End by early afternoon. It took him a long moment, but eventually Severus had answered it in a state of utter dishevelment that was slightly shocking to Hermione, despite how accustomed she had become to seeing him in his casual wear. He was unshaven, his hair ruffled, and with dark rings under his eyes. He wore his jogging bottoms, tucked into woollen socks, and a white vest which exhibited the muscularity of his arms and shoulders, testament to years of hauling cauldrons about, but also revealed the slight paunch he’d developed in more recent years. The faded Dark Mark on his left forearm, he made no effort to hide. All of this, Hermione took in despite herself, feeling a mysterious flutter in her chest.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Would you keep the noise down</em>!’ he had hissed as the door swung abruptly open.</p><p> </p><p>She lowered her fist which had been about to strike the door again and smiled up at him. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, cheerfully.</p><p> </p><p>He grimaced, frowning and shielding his eyes from the brightness of the day. ‘You have no right to be this bright and breezy after how much we drank last night,’ he managed, in a weak voice, like maybe he was about to vomit.</p><p> </p><p>‘You just need some coffee,’ she’d said. Taking advantage of the fact that he was incapacitated, she practically pushed past him into the house and made her way to the kitchen. This was perhaps a little unfair, but she was not about to let him slam the door in her face and that be end of it. She filled the kettle, flicked the switch, and pulled down two mugs out of the cupboard. He sat at the kitchen table, huddled into himself, watching her silently but not protesting, which she took to be a good sign.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hangovers get worse the older you get,’ he said. ‘You have all this to look forward to.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m never drinking again after last night,’ she advised him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course,’ he laughed, then winced in apparent pain and looked like he’d regretted that particular exertion.</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t have any hangover potions?’ she asked. It had been a genuine question but he looked at her suspiciously. She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t some clumsy segue into asking you to tutor me again.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he said, looking unconvinced. ‘In answer to your question, though, no, I don’t.’</p><p> </p><p>She made the coffees, adding extra sugar to his, and placed it in front of him before taking the seat opposite. She watched him take a few tentative sips.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks,’ he then sighed, seeming slightly revived. ‘Do you… have plans for today?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry and Ginny always have a get together at their place on Boxing Day,’ she told him, ‘so I’m heading there in a bit.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, right,’ he murmured, hiding his face in his mug as he took another sip. She wondered if he didn’t sound disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>‘You?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just thought I might go for a walk later,’ he said, with a small shrug. She now wondered whether he hadn’t been about to invite her, if she had said she had no plans.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘not great weather for it,’ she added, lamely.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t stay long, just long enough to be sure there wasn’t going to be any residual awkwardness left over from last night. He showed her out and as he unlatched the door, and she was just about to walk through it, he spoke again: ‘You’ll need to go to Diagon Alley and buy ingredients,’ he said, suddenly, his head low and eyes watchful from beneath strands of black hair. She looked at him perplexed. ‘If I’m going to help you with your potion-making,’ he elaborated, ‘you’ll need to buy the ingredients.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What? You’re going to help me?’ she asked, truly incredulous.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Apparently</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But… you were so adamant yesterday?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m as surprised as you are.’</p><p> </p><p>That was how she had come to be stood in his kitchen again on a frosty Saturday morning, three weeks later, being told off because she wasn’t slicing Galanthus Nivalis petals in a manner that was to his liking. It was perhaps the third time they had met since Boxing Day for him to tutor her in the ‘subtle science and exact art of potion-making’ (he had scowled when she reminded him of his speech, which he said he had no recollection of making, to which she teased that perhaps some of the memory potion they were going to be brewing might help), and it had been an interesting experience to say the least. He criticised and complained, he moaned and found fault with practically everything she did. His constant refrain of ‘not like that,’ or ‘you’re doing it wrong,’ had quickly grown tiresome. He often seemed so exasperated, so absolutely sick of her, that she found herself waiting for him to dismiss her completely. But she persisted, for however unpleasant his methods, she found that she was making improvements, even if he never told her as much.</p><p> </p><p>Currently, the kitchen was dimly lit, the blinds having been closed in case, by some unlikely chance, a Muggle should spy them through the window. All four gas burners of the stove were lit, rendering the room uncomfortably hot and stuffy. Severus seemed completely unfazed by this, but it made Hermione feel slightly claustrophobic. Atop each hob was a different vessel, in which various elements of a Memory Potion were being prepared; an old cast iron pot stewed mandrakes, jobberknoll feathers simmered in another pan, runespoor eggs were being boiled in another, and Hermione’s old pewter cauldron from her school days stood empty, awaiting the other deconstructed elements** of the potion to be added to it.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s not just that Slughorn didn’t teach you anything, he completely undid everything <em>I</em> taught you,’ Severus moaned, with a shake of his head. ‘You need to think about the <em>purpose</em> of the ingredient, what it <em>contributes</em> to the potion. How it <em>interacts</em> with the other elements. That’s what tells you how it needs to be prepared.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right. So, the Galanthus Nivalis petals. What is their purpose?’</p><p> </p><p>‘They…’ she trailed off. He raised an expectant eyebrow. She knew that she knew the answer, but his demeanour was incredibly off-putting, especially intense in the one-to-one context. It turned her brain to mulch and she often found that the words wouldn’t flow.</p><p> </p><p>‘They activate the amygdala in the frog’s brains and, in turn, ensure that when the potion is used, the <em>emotions</em> associated with the memory are amplified,’ he said exasperatedly. ‘So, how should they be cut? Come on, you know this!’</p><p> </p><p>‘They… they…’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>They, they</em>!’ he mimicked.</p><p> </p><p>She glared at him. ‘You know, you don’t have to be <em>quite</em> so horrible.’</p><p> </p><p>He paused, his body tense. Then his features softened resignedly and he observed her with an apologetic look in eye. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is <em>precisely</em> why I didn’t want to do this,’ he muttered.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I knew it would make you hate me. I don’t have the patience for it. Never did.’ He turned away and leaned against the kitchen counter, a muscle twitching in his jaw and his eyes closed. He took a few deep breaths before speaking again. ‘We should stop.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What? <em>Why</em>?’ she demanded.</p><p> </p><p>‘Because I… I have grown accustomed to your company,’ he said, almost as though the words were being pulled from him against his will. ‘And I don’t want my inability to communicate my frustrations effectively to jeopardise that. If we carry on, you’re going to want to stop… and not just the potion-making.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione appreciated this rare moment of self-awareness from him; wondered if he hadn’t just hinted at what she had expected all along, that he was desperately lonely. ‘I don’t want that either,’ she said, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘But, I’d prefer if we could find a way to make the lessons work for both of us, rather than stopping them altogether. I’m learning so much from you.’</p><p> </p><p>He turned towards her again. ‘It’s against my better judgement, but… I do want to help you, so, alright. Just, let me take a quick break. I promise I’ll be in a better frame of mind when I get back.’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded, issuing him a small smile and watched as he retrieved his cigarettes from the back pocket of his trousers. Placing one between his thin lips, he disappeared out of the back door into the small yard. Moving to the window she watched him through two slats of the blind as he paced about outside, back and forth in the small space, sucking on his cigarette and occasionally running a hand through his hair.</p><p> </p><p>Then, a little head popped over the wall next door; it was one of the older siblings Hermione had seen all those months ago when she’d caught Severus holding the crying toddler. That seemed a lifetime ago now. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but she saw Severus smile and indicated the child should climb down off whatever he was stood on to see over the wall, lest he should fall. The head disappeared and then Severus moved over to the wall himself and peered down over the other side of it. There was a further exchange and Severus reached over the wall and retrieved a plastic cup from the child. He pretended to drink from it and then handed it back. He said something else, finished his cigarette, flicking the stub into the corner of the yard where there was, she noticed, an accumulation of stubs, and came back inside.</p><p> </p><p>‘Better?’ she asked, as he closed the door.</p><p> </p><p>‘Better.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Who were you talking to?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just one of the kids next door.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You… like them?’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘They’re just kids.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her with a smirk. ‘You… <em>presume</em> I don’t like children?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. You didn’t seem to mind <em>some</em> children at Hogwarts. Malfoy, for example. There’s just something… discordant about seeing you… <em>play</em> with kids, <em>comfort</em> them when they’re crying. Not in a bad way, I would add.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s easier to just concede to their whims. They only pester you more if you don’t. Much like you, as a matter of fact. Which is likely how I got dragged into <em>this</em> nonsense,’ he said, indicating the stove where the potions ingredients continued to bubble away. ‘Shall we continue?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ready when you are,’ she said, picking up the knife again. ‘The Galanthus Nivalis petals have to be sliced, not diced, so that they have a larger surface area, which makes it easier for them to release the enzymes that activate the amygdala in the frog’s brains.’*** She looked over at him, for some sign of reassurance.</p><p> </p><p>He managed a small smile, complimented by a flash of satisfaction in his eye. ‘Go on then,’ he urged her.</p><p> </p><p>She steadied the flowers in her left hand and brought the knife over the top of them. Her tongue poised between her teeth in concentration she brought it down and sliced through the white petals.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he groaned, almost immediately. ‘Don’t be so heavy-handed.’</p><p> </p><p>She sighed in frustration</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry,’ he muttered, looking like he was unaccustomed to apologising. ‘Come here. I’ll show you.’</p><p> </p><p>He moved towards her and with one hand on her shoulder, turned her back towards the chopping board. He stood behind her and reached around, wrapping his hand over hers on the knife’s handle. His fingers were cold from being outside and she was very aware of the fact they had never been so close, had, with the exception of when she’d cared for him in the hospital wing, never actually touched. She sensed, by his stiff movements, he felt as self-conscious about this fact as she did. She could feel his warmth, smell the cigarette he’d just smoked. She almost gasped, but managed to steady her thoughts by remaining focused on the task in hand.</p><p> </p><p>Severus led her hand back over the ingredient, showing her how to angle the knife, to slice the petals so thinly they were translucent. ‘Like that,’ he said quietly, releasing her hand. Regrettably, he moved away, but he remained nearby to watch her finish her work. ‘Good,’ he concluded, still seemingly reluctant to part with a compliment.</p><p> </p><p>They mixed the potion with relative ease following that. He was still prone to deep sighs and chuntering under his breath when she didn’t do something exactly the way he would have, but she appreciated his attempts to be a little more patient. Indeed, by the end of their session, as they waited for the finished potion to cool, he seemed even more exhausted than he usually did when they were done, as though the whole thing had been a great effort.</p><p> </p><p>‘I really do appreciate this,’ she told him, as they drank cups of tea in the living room afterwards.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘It seems… important to you. Perhaps more than just a failed exam would warrant...’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’d like to specialise in memory maladies, so it was particularly mortifying to fail my exam in that area. It’s also not been ideal to have to re-sit the entire year.’ Indeed, time was very much of the essence, as she reminded each time she visited Monica and Wendell.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, this time you’ll be ready. We can start on a Forgetfulness Potion next.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re struggling because you have no respect for the ingredients,’ he then said, after a long moment. ‘That’s the problem.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Respect</em> for the ingredients?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Scoff all you like, but understanding where they’ve come from, how they grow, or are otherwise sourced… it can all help with the process as a whole. Luckily for you, this is also something teachable.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled; it was infectious, hearing him speak so passionately. ‘Then I would like to know,’ she said.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>His resolve had been broken by her offer to make him a cup a coffee. That is all it had taken. It was reminiscent of the Mars Bars she had brought him in the early days, but somehow it meant more. When was the last time someone had made him a cup of coffee? Indeed, done <em>anything</em> specifically for him. Such a simple gesture and yet he had unravelled so effortlessly at it. He remembered a time when he could refuse himself most pleasures in life, convince himself that he didn’t need anyone’s help, was better off alone. This is what had kept him safe all those years. Then he found himself yielding on a matter he had, just hours before, been so resolute regarding. He had truly believed he would not tutor her. Then she had made him a cup of coffee.</p><p> </p><p>If nothing else, agreeing to tutor her would give her a reason to spend more time with him and, reluctant as he was to admit it, this too was a pleasure he could no longer deny himself. He expended a lot of energy pretending that this wasn’t the case, feigning indifference, but under Veritaserum his response would have been quite revealing.</p><p> </p><p>So, she had come perhaps a handful of times since Christmas, and they had stood in the stifling kitchen, brewing potions. He realised, too, that his missed this process. The methodical nature of preparing ingredients, stirring the pot, careful decantation. He enjoyed lending it the focus it required, the time and attention to detail. It had concerned him, initially, that brewing again might bring him too close to his old world, his old life, but, in fact, he found it somewhat therapeutic.</p><p> </p><p>He also felt he was closer to an epiphany. He’d heard her, a few times, reading through the lists of ingredients and the instructions in her potions books and it had changed the cadence of her voice, making it an ever-closer match to the voice of his dreams. He just still couldn’t quite make it work. It made no sense that it could be her, of that he was certain, so who else could it be?</p><p> </p><p>Today he’s brought her foraging with him. He’d considered taking her to the marshes but they felt too sacred to share yet. When she inevitably grows tired of him, moves on, he doesn’t want <em>his</em> marshes tarnished by her memory. So, they had come to the woods in Cokeworth, which were small, and not as abundant as they had been in Severus’s youth, but could still provide some practice. It was the process he wanted to teach her anyway; where to look, how to tell that things were ripe for picking. It was early February now, and with Spring not too far around the corner, it was the perfect time for early flowers.</p><p> </p><p>‘Your footwear is wholly inappropriate,’ he said, eyeing her white trainers with disdain. ‘It’s going to be muddy.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Really?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah. You have been outside in February before, haven’t you?’ he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>‘Of <em>course</em>,’ she said, ‘I just imagined there’d be paths.’</p><p> </p><p>‘God help us,’ he sighed, holding open the gate at the entrance of the woods so she could pass through. ‘This is what comes, you know, of gaining all your knowledge from books.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll bear that in mind going forwards,’ she said, ‘but there isn’t a lot I can do about it right now.’</p><p> </p><p>They moved into the woods; Severus walked more slowly than he might ordinarily have done, not wanting to get out of breath and betray anything of his ongoing ailments. The lie he told, all those months ago, about not needing medicinal potions, still haunted him, but he was not one for exposing his soft underbelly. So, hands dug in his pockets, he led her at a gentle pace along the forest path, his eyes trained on the foliage covered ground in search of treasures.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, here, look,’ he said after a short while, halting by a small spread of white flowers along the ground. ‘Chickweed. They’re great in healing potions.’ He beheaded one of the flowers and brought it to his nose, inhaling its fragrance. ‘It’s early in the season for Chickweed but that can be a good thing.’ When this elicited no response from Hermione he looked over to find her with her nose stuck in a book. ‘What’s <em>that</em>?’ he asked, almost disgusted.</p><p> </p><p>‘A book on foraging,’ she explained, showing him the front cover, ‘I got it out of the library when you said we were coming here.’</p><p> </p><p>He rolled his eyes. ‘What did I <em>just</em> say? Not ten minutes ago? You can’t learn this from a book.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I just thought…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, think again.’ He took the book from her, snapped it shut, and handed it back to her. She took it with a frown and tucked it back into her bag.</p><p> </p><p>They meandered through the woodland for the next hour or so, Hermione occasionally slipping and sliding in the mud due to her ridiculous trainers and having to reach out and grab hold of his arm to steady herself. He, of course, pretended not to enjoy this, rolling his eyes and tutting audibly at her every time. As they got deeper into the woods, they found more of what they were looking for. Plenty of nettles, dandelions, and wild garlic, all of which they gathered and carried in more cheap plastic bags from the corner shop.</p><p> </p><p>It was at this point he noticed it: ‘Oh, wow, aconite!’ he exclaimed, bending to inspect three purple stalks emerging from the under growth. He looked up at her expectantly, imagining she might share some of his enthusiasm, to find her watching him with a strange expression. ‘What?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing, it’s just… I like it when you get all giddy about this stuff.’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned and shook his head. ‘I’ve never been <em>giddy</em> about anything in my life. This is <em>really</em> rare.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sure it is,’ she chuckled. She crouched beside him. ‘Poisonous too, yes?’</p><p> </p><p>‘The leaves are, but we need the root.’ He took some Muggle gardening gloves from his coat pocket and put them on. ‘I’ll show you how to pick it,’ he said, holding his hand close to where the plant emerged from the ground and pulling it up. ‘You have to be firm, but slow, so it doesn’t snap off, leaving the roots in the ground.’ He demonstrated once and then watched as she copied him until they’d collected all three plants, then he used secateurs to the sever the roots.</p><p> </p><p>They moved along after that, until they came to a fallen beech tree. Severus inspected underneath it. ‘This is the perfect spot for mushrooms,’ he advised. ‘Look, there, Velvet Shank.’ He indicated a growth of bright orange caps on the damp bark. ‘Let’s take that then, err, maybe rest a little.’ He could feel himself growing tired and perhaps needed a few moments to compose himself before the walk back to Spinner’s End. He showed Hermione how to collect the mushrooms and then they sat on the log to rest. Hermione had prepared a flask of tea, something he would never have thought to do, and he accepted gratefully, appreciating the warmth on such a cold day.</p><p> </p><p>A moment later, an ungodly screech rent the air. ‘<em>Nicky</em>! Get back here!’ It was followed by quick-paced footsteps, sloshing in the mud, and then a small figure, covered in said mud, emerged from some bushes onto the path.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh. Hey, Sev-rus,’ the boy said. He looked appraisingly at Hermione but said nothing to her.</p><p> </p><p>‘You should listen your mum,’ Severus told him, peering down the path to where the women from next door, Natasha, was walking with the two younger children in a double buggy.</p><p> </p><p>Nicky shrugged. ‘Can I see your scars?’ he asked. Severus sighed and with a sideways glance at Hermione pulled down his collar to reveal the patch of puckered skin at his throat. ‘Ew! How’d you <em>really</em> get ‘em?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I told you,’ Severus said, checking to see how close Natasha was now and, ergo, how long this conversation would have to last. She was close. ‘I was attacked by a poisonous snake,’ he said simply. He felt Hermione stiffen beside him and couldn’t help but smirk.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, right,’ said Nicky, dismissively.</p><p> </p><p>Natasha reached them then, thankfully, and tugged Nicky towards her by the hood of his coat. ‘What’ve I told you about running off,’ she reprimanded him. ‘There’s monsters in these woods, you know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Poisonous snakes,’ Severus said in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>Having Severus’s story apparently confirmed by an external source, Nicky was more inclined to believe it; his eyes widened now and he moved closer to his mum more willingly. ‘Hi, Severus,’ Natasha said, now turning her attention to him. ‘How are you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine. You?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Shattered,’ she replied, gesturing to the children. ‘They’re going to their dad’s this weekend though, if you want to come over then.’</p><p> </p><p>He glanced at Hermione again but she was pretending to be preoccupied by the contents of her cup. ‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why’s he coming over, mummy?’ Nicky asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Never you mind,’ Natasha told him. ‘I’ll see you then, then,’ she said to Severus.</p><p> </p><p>‘Bye,’ all three children chorused.</p><p> </p><p>‘Bye,’ Severus replied.</p><p> </p><p>Severus and Hermione watched Natasha and the kids move off down the path in pregnant silence. ‘You really <em>do</em> like those kids,’ Hermione said, giggling, once they were out of earshot.</p><p> </p><p>‘Whatever,’ he grumbled. ‘Actually… that’s reminded me of something I was wondering about.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm?’</p><p> </p><p>‘The other week, when you were on about me liking children more generally, you mentioned me liking Draco, when you were at school.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You always gave him preferential treatment,’ she said. It was just a statement, she didn’t sound particularly bitter, like he might have expected her to.</p><p> </p><p>‘It was more complicated than “preference,”’ he said, although he knew she knew this already. ‘But… I suppose I did end up with something of an invested interest in him. I wondered whether you ever heard anything of how he’s doing?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err, no,’ she said, ‘I can’t say as I do. The Malfoys faded into insignificance after the war and I can’t say I’ve given much time and attention to chasing gossip about people with such a genuine hatred of Muggleborns. He <em>deserves</em> insignificance. In fact, I can’t think of a more fitting punishment for someone like Draco Malfoy.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t necessarily disagree that insignificance might do Draco some good, but… he was a scared kid, trying to live up to other’s expectations. It may not surprise you to learn I find something in that relatable. Lucius is a more rightful target of indignation.’</p><p> </p><p>She seemed to consider this. ‘Draco was of age by the end of the war. He knew what he was doing. It’s too easy to just blame his dad.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t want to argue about it,’ Severus said, a little pleadingly, for that certainly had not been his intention.</p><p> </p><p>‘I just still have a lot of anger,’ Hermione said, ‘it’s hard to be forgiving.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus wanted to ask if she had forgiven <em>him</em>, but wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer. ‘I understand, but I swore to protect Draco just as I swore to protect Potter. It would be nice to know that hadn’t been entirely in vain, that’s all.’</p><p> </p><p>She sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can find out for you, if you like, if it would give you peace of mind?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ he muttered, regretting ever saying anything after an oppressive silence descended. He waited a moment, trying to think of the right words to repair things. ‘Do you like curry?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Erm, yeah,’ she said, thoughtfully, ‘so long as it’s not too spicy.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Have you tried the takeaway on Weaver’s Way?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not yet.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then would you like to? It’s a bit early, but we could go back to mine, warm up a bit, then order one?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, that would be nice,’ she said, smiling again.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>After a small disagreement, which Hermione won, about using her mobile phone to order the curry, instead of ordering in the venue itself, Severus had set out to pick it up. It was early evening and darkness had fallen. Hermione remained at number 7 while she waited for him, the electric fire turned up high and a lamp in the corner casting a warm glow through the living room. It was almost cosy and, as always, she carried with her a copy of <em>I Capture the Castle</em>, and had tucked her feet under herself on the sage-green velvet settee to wile away the time in Severus’s absence.</p><p> </p><p>He was gone for all of thirty-five minutes, bringing the cold in with him when he returned. He entered the living room and sat beside her on the settee, which she noted as unusual as he usually sat in the adjacent armchair, and placed a paper bag with the food in it on the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>I Capture the Castle</em>,’ he stated, turning to her and tilting his head to read the title of the book she is reading.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes. Have you read it?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘It’s one of my favourites. It’s about a poor, eccentric family living in a dilapidated castle. Cassandra, the narrator, wants to be a writer so she starts to write about her and her family’s life in the castle, particularly when they get two new, rich, and handsome neighbours.’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned a little disdainfully but said, ‘maybe it does sound familiar.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Listen to this, I just adore it,’ and she began reading from the book, ‘“<em>Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return — that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth…</em>”’****</p><p> </p><p>She trailed off as, suddenly, his whole countenance had changed. He had stiffened and was looking at her wide-eyed and slightly panicked. He shifted away from her slightly, only stopping because he had his back up against the arm of the settee, trapped. Her first instinct was that the quotation she’d read had resonated a little too profoundly with him, reminded him all to acutely of what it means to love and not be loved in return, and she cursed her thoughtlessness. However, when he finally found his voice, it was not to admonition or rebuke her, as she might have expected. He sounded as if he couldn’t catch his breath, his tone one of disconcerted realisation.</p><p> </p><p>‘It <em>was</em> you,’ he whispered.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Not sure Boxing Day is a thing everywhere; it’s just what the day after Christmas is called in the UK.</p><p>** This is my best estimate of the contents of a memory potion based on the known ingredients (as per canon) of Memory Potions and Baruffio’s Brain Elixir. </p><p>*** Literally no idea what I’m talking about.</p><p>**** Quotation courtesy of Dodie Smith.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. A Voice, Only Like Music</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Read that again,’ he commanded, though his voice was shaky. He was still pressed against the arm of the settee, clutching it with white knuckles. His body was twisted away from Hermione, and he didn’t seem able to look at her anymore.</p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t breathe. Somehow, as soon as he had spoken those words, ‘It <em>was</em> you,’ she had known that he was referring to their time on the hospital wing. Perhaps the scene was just too reminiscent of it; the dim light, her reading <em>I Capture the Castle</em>. Perhaps she thought that it was only recognition of what had taken place between them all those years ago that would elicit this panicked, agitated manner from him. But then, had she not often wondered if he wasn’t, on some level, aware of her being there?</p><p> </p><p>‘I-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-No,’ he groaned. Then, through gritted teeth, ‘<em>read it again</em>!’</p><p> </p><p>She fumbled for the book, which had fallen to her lap and found the part she had read out before. ‘“<em>J-just to be in love s-seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known…</em>”’ As she stumbled over the words, she watched him over the top of the pages. He had closed his eyes, screwed them shut, in fact, almost as if the words caused him physical pain. ‘“…<em>The th-thought came to me that p-perhaps it is the loving that counts…</em>”’ He was taking deep, steadying, breaths. His hold on the settee loosened, became more stabilising, grounding, as opposed to frantic and desperate, though his eyes remained closed, his expression strained. ‘“…<em>not the being loved in return — that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness…</em>”’ With a small sigh, he put his head back against the wall behind them. She can tell by his stillness, his silence, that he is listening intently as she reads, like he’s attempting to commit to memory the cadence of her voice. ‘“…<em>For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth…</em>”’ As she concludes, he wears an expression of solace. He could almost be asleep.</p><p> </p><p>Then he sat forwards, his elbows on his thighs, kneading the heels of his palms into his eyes until they’re red and watery. ‘It was <em>you</em>,’ he said again, at length. His tone was calm and relieved now, like he’d finally found something he had been searching for, for a long time, like he had been freed from some great burden. He let his hands fall away from his face with a sigh. His brow is still furrowed, but his anger has been replaced by a haunted, unfathomably sad look.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, finding herself reaching out and placing her own hand on his forearm. She felt his muscles twitch under her fingers, but he didn’t object. She watched him carefully, trying to interpret the minutia of his expression and manner. ‘Are you angry?’ she asked, needing some clues on how best to proceed.</p><p> </p><p>‘‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ he said, after another long moment. He sighed and shook his head. ‘No,’ he concluded. Then, finally, he looked up and turned to her. Sitting up he allowing his right arm to fall along the back of the settee, where his fingertips accidentally brushed her hair. There was a hesitant pause. He looked over at his hand almost as though it didn’t belong to him, and then those dark eyes flicked back to her. Almost imperceptibly, her breath hitched, which she hoped he didn’t notice. ‘I need you to help me understand…’ he pleaded.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded and took an emboldening breath. ‘When I went back to Hogwarts, after the war, to finish my NEWTs, Madam Pomfrey agreed for me to help her on the Hospital Wing, experience for the Healer’s program, you see,’ Hermione explained, ‘and you were there, desperately ill, but slowly recovering.’ His gaze bore into her inscrutably. ‘Madam Pomfrey was very… protective of you, at first, but then, this one time, you began bleeding out and she wasn’t around so I did what I could until she got there. After that, she allowed me to… help with some of your cares. Nothing… intimate,’ she added quickly, when he raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Just changing your gauze every now and then, or adjusting your drip. But…’ She paused, wishing he would stop looking at her like that.</p><p> </p><p>‘But?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sometimes and… perhaps increasingly, over time, I would… stay with you, after hours. Talking to you and… and reading to you…’ she trailed off with a frustrated groan. ‘It’s so humiliating saying it out loud. I don’t know what I was thinking! I certainly don’t know what I was trying to achieve. I didn’t <em>know</em> you could hear me. I’m <em>so</em> sorry.’ It was her turn to shift away as she felt her cheeks burning.</p><p> </p><p>A long, painful silence stretched before them and she was just about to ask if he wanted her to leave when he finally spoke again, his voice thin and whiskery. ‘For <em>years</em> I have heard a voice flitter through my dreams, teasing and provoking me. For <em>years</em> I have tried to make sense of it, to piece together these fragmented details and make something whole from it… and for <em>years</em> I have always come up short. Then I go into the shop this one time and you’re there, and you call me “Professor Snape” when no one’s called me that in forever… Suddenly, I was right back there in the hospital wing. In darkness. Darkness and the sound of voices, far off...’ He continued to stare right into Hermione’s eyes. She desperately wanted to look away, but found herself transfixed.</p><p> </p><p>She swallowed. ‘You’ve wondered all this time?’ she asked, her voice trembling.</p><p> </p><p>‘I knew there was <em>something</em> about you,’ he replied, and a strange look came over him that she couldn’t quite interpret; he half-smiled, half-grimaced, like the notion both pleased and pained him. ‘This, unnerving sense of déjà vu, of the uncanny,’ he continued. ‘It’s what made me want to get out of the shop so quickly that first time, and… and it’s what’s kept me coming back for more.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so, <em>so</em> sorry!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Stop apologising. Just… just explain why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p><em>For selfish reasons</em>, she thought. But when she spoke, what she said was, ‘I… tried. The very first time I came here, I wanted to tell you, but the timing didn’t seem right. Then there didn’t seem to be a right time after that either and the more time that passed, the harder it got. We began to… <em>enjoy</em> one another’s company – you have said as much yourself – and I didn’t want it to… I don’t know… embarrass you and jeopordise that. I’m <em>so</em> sorry.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Please</em> stop apologising!’ He looked slightly incredulous at her explanation, like it made no sense. ‘You don’t understand how this has consumed me for the past seven years. Long nights in Azkaban with this voice – <em>your</em> voice – echoing around my cell; days spent in this house, the haunting memories of the place vying for my attention against recollections of <em>your</em> voice, <em>your</em> voice coming to me at the most inopportune moments. This constant longing to… make sense of it, reconcile it with reality…’ He trailed off with a shake of his head as though he had still not quite managed these things, as though they still caused him pain and consternation despite the revelation.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione stared at him, stricken. She’d been selfish; she’d used him, never given any real consideration to what the impact on him might be. She’d even quite liked the idea that he could hear her, hadn’t she? ‘I really <em>am</em> sorry!’ she said. ‘I think it’s probably best if I just go,’ she added, when she couldn’t take the tension any longer. It wasn’t like her to abandon a fight, but familiar feelings of shame enveloped her, rendering her impotent. She made to stand, but in an instant his hand was on her arm.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why?’ he demanded. She looked at where his long fingers, with their chewed nails, were wrapped around her wrist, perhaps a little too tightly. His eyes followed hers and he immediately let go, looking contrite.</p><p> </p><p>She remained standing. ‘Because… because this has gone precisely how I anticipated it would. It’s made it awkward and… the whole dynamic feels weird now.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, a new, frantic edge to his voice now. ‘You misunderstand…’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s all too messy, too complicated, weird-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-No!’ he entreated, apparently struck monosyllabic.</p><p> </p><p>There was something in his insistence that not only made her relent, but stirred renewed determination in her. ‘Then, please,’ she responded, sitting back down, ‘tell me what you’re thinking?’ She shifted her body so they were facing one another across the length of the settee; it was a small two-seater, and they were forced close.</p><p> </p><p>As always, there looked to be some internal debate raging within him. ‘You misunderstand,’ he repeated, very softly. ‘I don’t know how to describe it, but… as I lay on the floor of The Shrieking Shack, the night of the Final Battle, I’d accepted I was going to die – no, just let me say this and then it’s done,’ he said, when she’d opened her mouth to interrupt, to empathise. ‘I didn’t <em>want</em> to die, it just seemed… inevitable, as easy as falling asleep. It hurt and I wanted an end to the pain. But… I didn’t die, and everything went on hurting. I just lay there, vaguely aware I wasn’t dead and vaguely aware I wasn’t really alive either. It still felt like it would be so easy to just… drift off, fall over the brink. And then… then I hear this voice. It <em>is</em> a voice, only… it’s like music. I’d heard other voices too, before that, but <em>this</em> voice was talking <em>to</em> me. The others were more pragmatic, Poppy and the Healer’s perhaps. Anyway… hearing <em>that</em> voice, when I was in the depths of that unending darkness, perpetual pain… it was… <em>comforting</em>. Each time it pulled me a little closer away from the edge of the abyss… made me believe that, just maybe, staying this side of the veil might be alright after all…’ He paused, looking at her again, something unreadable in his gaze. ‘So, you see, you misunderstand. I’m not angry or embarrassed. I’m… I mean… you saved my life.’</p><p> </p><p>She felt the pounding of her heart against her ribcage, heard it in her ears. His words, as unsteady and meekly as he had spoken them, had built to a crescendo. She had noticed a glint missing from his eyes, all those months ago when she had first come to Spinner’s End, but it was there now, burning in the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>His hand, she suddenly realised, was back in her hair. She wasn’t even sure he realised he was doing it, absently playing with one of her curls, like doing so was of comfort to him. She found she did not mind.</p><p> </p><p>When he did realise, he pulled away, suddenly, but she brought her own hand up to meet his, holding it, rooting him. Rooting both of them. He allowed that much, but then their heads were close, she could smell his fragrance, a residual earthiness from their day in the woods, and then his other hand was on her shoulder, resistant.</p><p> </p><p>‘What are you doing?’ he croaked, barely audibly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Kissing you, I think,’ she breathed.</p><p> </p><p>The briefest of pauses and then, ‘OK,’ he whispered, through that wonky smile.</p><p> </p><p>Their lips brushed, soft and nervous, at first. Then keen and firm. His slight stubble scratched at her chin. He tasted of the cocoa they had to warm their bones when they returned from the woods. He felt solid and safe. The hand on her shoulder slid around her back, pulling her body towards him. He is tremulous, but he takes the lead now. When they pull apart it is mutual, and with reluctance. They both breathe heavily.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione…’ Her name sounded foreign and strange coming from his mouth, and she realised that in all the months she’s been in Cokeworth, in the time she had come to comfortably call him “Severus,” he had never once uttered her forename. Now he does, it is as powerful as any spell; she is bewitched and beguiled. ‘We shouldn’t have done that,’ he then said, shifting away from her again. ‘I didn’t want to tutor you in potions for fear it would make you hate me and you didn’t tell me about the Hospital Wing for fear you would scare me off. Then we go and do… <em>that</em>! Stupid!’</p><p> </p><p>But she won’t stand for it. ‘Speak for yourself,’ she said, smiling. ‘Some things just aren’t logical.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I like logic.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know you do,’ she chuckled. ‘Logic is safe. It makes sense. Feelings are more complicated, but it doesn’t mean we can’t trust them.’ He looks unconvinced, still leaning away from her, but relaxes slightly. ‘I think the food is probably cold.’ She pointed at the paper bag, filled with their takeaway food, that he’d placed on the coffee table an hour or so before, trying to focus his attention on something more tangible. He looked at the bag too, as though he’d forgotten all about it. ‘Get some plates and I’ll heat it up,’ she suggested.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re sure?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m certain.’</p><p> </p><p>He takes a long time getting the plates, and she wonders if he isn’t in the kitchen berating himself, regretting his moment of unconstraint.</p><p> </p><p>He issues her a small, close-lipped smile when he returns, placing the plates, cutlery, and two beers on the coffee table before them. He looks at the armchair and then the empty seat on the settee beside her and hesitantly drops into the latter.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thought for a moment you’d got lost in there,’ she said, taking out her wand and casting a wordless heating charm over their dinner.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he said, smirking.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>The don’t say much as they eat, mainly just mutter about the food being nice. They share a naan, and portion of pilau rice. He lets her try some of his jalfrezi, she balks at the spice; he laughs at the mildness of her korma.  </p><p> </p><p>It isn’t late when she leaves, but after the headiness of the day she is exhausted. He looks it too. He shows her to the door, opening it for her. He avoids her eye, but when her fingers ghost the back of his hand, he is roused, and finally looks at her. He closes the door, closes the world out, and dips his head. She reaches up on her tiptoes to meet his lips again. They are clumsy in their eagerness and the newness of it all.</p><p> </p><p>He asks when he’ll see her again. Says he has to go to Natasha’s, next door, on Saturday, when she’s next free.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, yeah,’ she says, crestfallen and confused.</p><p> </p><p>‘But Sunday,’ he says, ‘you could come then?’</p><p> </p><p>It’s three days away; feels a lifetime. ‘Yes,’ she agrees, though still perplexed. ‘We do potions on Sundays anyway.’</p><p> </p><p>‘So we do,’ he agreed with a frown.</p><p> </p><p>She makes the short journey home, biting her bottom lip, which still stings from the spice of his curry, trying to make sense of what just happened and how she feels about it. By the time she has reached her front door, she is no closer to understanding. She prefers logic too, she thinks, as she makes her way upstairs to her bedroom, smiling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. When She Comes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She didn’t come on Sunday. He knew she wouldn’t, it made sense that she wouldn’t, but still, he felt stung.</p><p> </p><p>He’d tidied round a bit, just before she was due. Put on a clean t-shirt. Brushed his teeth. He desperately hoped she wouldn’t notice these gestures. It wasn’t that he necessarily anticipated any further intimacy; certainly, he didn’t <em>expect</em> it. But he’d done them just in case. Then, afterwards, he occupied the armchair in the living room; tucking his hands between his knees, so he wouldn’t bite his nails, and listening to the incessant <em>tick-tock</em> of the cuckoo clock, which counted down the moments until her impending arrival. He tried to will the ruinous mantra of ‘<em>she was your student; you’re a filthy old man; she’s half your age; she deserves better</em>,’ out of his head.</p><p> </p><p>All this, even though he <em>knew</em> she wasn’t going to come.</p><p> </p><p>He thought about the kiss; had been unable to think of much else ever since it happened. As they’d pulled away from one another, he regretted ever having listened to her voice tugging him away from the precipice. He should have taken a running jump. She tasted sweet, her lips plush and inviting, whilst <em>he</em> was bitter and coarse. His stubble had left a pink rash on her chin. He would always hurt her, one way or another. He’d needed to take a cold shower that evening, attempt to wash away the unworthiness, disgust and shame whilst dealing with the decidedly more physical ramifications of having had her pressed so close against him.</p><p> </p><p>There was little solace in the fact that <em>she</em> had been the one who started it. It was <em>your</em> fingers in her hair, he reminded himself. He couldn’t fathom what had been going through his mind and concluded he had been drunk on the realisation that <em>the</em> voice had been <em>her</em> voice all along; the sense of peace and completeness this fact had brought over him had rendered him senseless.</p><p> </p><p>She’d said everything was fine. Had stayed to eat. <em>But, she hadn’t come back</em>. She’d said she would, but she hadn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes after she was expected, he’d started chewing on his nails. Ten minutes after that he’d picked at the cuticle on his thumb until it bled. He sucked on it, glaring at the clock. He’d stood out the front for a smoke, watching up and down the street for her. Went back inside. Paced. Went back outside. Smoked. His initial impatience soon gave way to outrageous anger, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. He took it out on a wheelie bin in the back yard, kicking it so hard it made his toes throb. It was his own fault for trusting her. People were liars, he’d been naïve to forget this; always assume something is a lie, temper your expectations, until it is proven otherwise. His anger only gave way to self-loathing as the evening wore on. What had he expected, really? It was the early hours of morning when he finally went to sleep, only to be woken before dawn, sweaty and consumed by powerful feelings of concern. His mind, as always, running away with itself, jumping to the worst-case scenarios. He had preferred the anger.</p><p> </p><p>He got up, splashed cold water in his face. Scowled at his visage in the mirror. Pulling on some old jeans, a grey jumper, and boots, he Apparated to the marshes, startling a flock of curlew, who paddled in the shallows, when he reappeared. He trudged along the mud path, in the direction of his favourite spot, a small hillock overlooking the flatlands. He’d not even been walking for five minutes when he Apparated back to Cokeworth, to a back alley, where the bins are kept behind the shop. Checking his watch, he noted the shop should have just opened. If she’s on shift, she’ll be in there now, probably sorting today’s newspapers. He sets off towards the front of the shop, stops, turns around and strides back into the alley muttering ‘shit, shit, shit’ under his breath. He took some sharp breaths, turned again and got as far as the front door this time.</p><p> </p><p>He was just about to walk away again when it was opened by an old man who stands aside and says, ‘after you, son.’ The choice about whether or not he should suddenly taken away from him, Severus hesitated and then walked inside the shop. His eyes flicked towards the counter but Hermione isn’t there; another young woman, with a high ponytail and lots of make-up sits in her place, texting.</p><p> </p><p>‘Err, twenty Marlboro Lights,’ he grunts. The woman looks up like she isn’t sure who he’s talking to, then turns to get the cigarettes. ‘You don’t normally work Monday mornings,’ he adds, conversationally.</p><p> </p><p>She shrugged. ‘Not gonna turn down an extra shift, am I?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Where’s the, err, usual… person.’ He hands over the money and she returns his change.</p><p> </p><p>Another shrug. ‘Called in sick.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ he sniffs.</p><p> </p><p>He leaves, lighting up the moment he’s back outside. “Ill” could mean many things, but if she could call in sick to work, she clearly wasn’t dying. That was all he needed to know, really. The rest was just details and she was probably lying anyway, because that’s what she does.</p><p> </p><p>He stomps back to Spinner’s End. That ought to be the end of it, really, but he finds he spends a restless Tuesday, sat in the armchair, brooding. On Wednesday, he can’t help himself. He tries the shop again, but she’s not there: ‘Not due in again until tomorrow,’ they tell him.</p><p> </p><p>If Hermione <em>was</em> ill, she’d probably be at home. He knew where she lived. He could go there, just to check. But, if she’s not ill, and she’s genuinely trying to avoid him...</p><p> </p><p>It’s ten minutes before he’s stood in front of the door he walked her back to on Christmas day. He shakes his head at how pathetic he is and knocks twice. The self-loathing is back. It takes a moment, but it is soon opened by a bearded, band t-shirt, denim jacket-wearing man of a similar age to Hermione. Presumably, this was the housemate. He looks Severus up and down and frowns questioningly. Severus instantly dislikes him with no real justification. ‘Is Hermione here?’ he asks, bluntly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Err, no.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, where is she?’ Severus snapped.</p><p> </p><p>The housemate shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest and somehow making himself much more imposing. He was certainly considerably taller and of more impressive build than Severus. ‘Who’s asking?’ he demanded.</p><p> </p><p>‘I…’ What was he to her? He was the lecherous creep that had stalked her in the shop, lured her back to his house, and shoved his tongue down her throat. Judging by the gatekeeper’s expression, that wouldn’t sit well with him. ‘I’m a tutor,’ Severus said instead. Half-truths always played better than overt lies. ‘She missed a session with me. I wanted to check she was OK.’</p><p> </p><p>‘She was fine, last time I saw her.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Which was when?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Last Wednesday? Thursday?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re saying you haven’t seen her for… <em>days</em>?</p><p> </p><p>‘I often don’t,’ the housemate said with a shrug. Severus found his nonchalance infuriating, some of which must have been conveyed because the man sighed, relaxed his arms to his sides, and elaborated. ‘She has Uni, work, she goes sees friends down South sometimes. It’s not out of the ordinary. She was texting me just last night. I can reply and say you stopped by?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No!’ Severus said, instantly and without thought. The notion that this scruffy oaf gets a text message and he is left wondering and worried leaves feelings of inadequacy and, even worse, jealousy. He isn’t interested in the fact that he possesses no mobile phone on which she might contact him if she was so inclined.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how he gets back to Spinner’s End, but suddenly he’s there. From the hallway, he spies the pots and pans on the stove that they’d been using to practice brewing. He stalks through and with one abrupt swiping motion he upends them onto the floor where they clatter and smash, her cauldron clanging against the floorboards.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione could barely stay awake. Sat on the stool behind the counter in the shop, she feels her eyelids drooping and her head nodding. She just needed to get through the next few hours of her shift and then she could go and offer an explanation to Severus; not <em>the</em> explanation, but <em>an</em> explanation.</p><p> </p><p>The truth of it was, as always, there’d been an incident with Monica and Wendell. It wasn’t the first of its kind, and it wouldn’t be the last.</p><p> </p><p>Wendell had finally gotten that old tractor working, only to drive it straight into the wall of a disused barn. Monica had called Hermione the next afternoon after she’d been foraging with Severus – <em>the afternoon after she’d kissed Severus</em>. She’d Apparated to Withy Copse Farm to find Wendell stirring from unconsciousness, bleeding and with several evident broken bones. She’d called an ambulance, knowing this was far beyond her sole abilities, and had spent the next seventy-two hours at his bedside in West Mendip Hospital, where Wendell had been ranting and raving to the doctors about how he’d swerved to miss a child, who had run out in front of him, until they’d manage to sedate him. There’d been talk of Mental Health Act assessments, sectioning, residential placements. She knows Muggles can’t help him. She waited until they’d completed x-rays, dressed Wendell’s head wound, and put his leg and arms in casts, and then had used The Confundus Charm on the Consultant until they discharged him. She’d finally felt it was safe to leave the pair this morning, there being some comfort in the fact Wendell was incapacitated by his casts, and had Apparated back to Cokeworth in time for her shift at the shop having had about eight hours sleep in the last four days.</p><p> </p><p>She wondered what it might be like to tell Severus the truth. Only Harry, Ginny, and Ron knew the full extent of the damage she’d caused her parents when she’d modified their memories all those years ago. But they never asked about them, because they feel uncomfortable, and Hermione never offered information willingly either, because she feels such utter shame and sadness about it. There was an illusion that, if she kept Monica and Wendell to herself, they almost weren’t real. The idea of Severus knowing any of this made her insides writhe uncomfortably. He had spoken about not wanting her to hate him, but he had underestimated the standard to which she held people in light of her own profound failings.</p><p> </p><p>She quickly dismisses any notion she might have had about telling him, when the shop door tinkles open and suddenly he is right there before her, his face like thunder; she doesn’t miss the fleeting look of relief when he first sees her, the almost indiscernible loosening of his shoulders, though it is quickly replaced by utter fury.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi,’ she breaths in surprise, issuing him a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>He swept towards her, stopping abruptly before the counter. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Excuse</em> me?’</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t say anything else, just stands glaring at her with his jaw set. </p><p> </p><p>‘No. I won’t be spoken to like that,’ she said simply, waving her hand dismissively at him and pretending to be busy straightening the card reader and a pot of pens that stood by the till.</p><p> </p><p>‘You lied,’ he snarled.</p><p> </p><p>She sighed. ‘But not intentionally.’ He’s looking at her like he needs more, she knows he probably deserves more, but not here, in the shop, with her boss in the stock room. And certainly, not when he’s speaking to her like she’s something nasty he’s trodden in. ‘Can I come and see you after my shift?’ she asks, hoping this might give him time to calm down so they can speak more productively.</p><p> </p><p>He ignores the question. When he speaks again, it’s with a raised voice: ‘How dare you! You said-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Everything alright here, Hermione?’ Mr. Green, her boss asks, emerging from the stock room, just as she’d feared he would, and eyeing both her and Severus, as they glare at one another, curiously. ‘Oh, Snape,’ he adds.</p><p> </p><p>‘Everything is fine, Mr. Green,’ she tries to assure him. ‘<em>Snape</em> was just leaving.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus’s eyes flashed back to her. ‘Fine,’ he snapped, turning as abruptly as he’d entered and striding back towards the door</p><p> </p><p>He pauses at the doorway when she says his name, just like he used to when he was bracing himself to try and speak to her. ‘I will come and see you after my shift,’ she said, and it is no longer a question. He says nothing. The door closes behind him.</p><p> </p><p>‘You know him?’ asked Mr. Green, turning the majority of his attention back to his stock list.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sort of,’ Hermione bumbled noncommittally.</p><p> </p><p>‘He’s always been a proper weirdo. You want to be careful who you’re hanging around with, people’ll get the wrong idea,’ he concluded, absently, before turning and heading into the back again.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She knocks furiously on the front door of number 7 and she doesn’t stop until he has opened it. She had been prepared to shout through the letterbox if she needed to.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, you,’ he said in a bored drawl as he opened the door. He glanced up and down the street. More recently, he’d stopped doing this, but clearly the distrust had returned and she imagined, from his expression, that she was going to have a task rebuilding it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Let me explain,’ she pleaded.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,’ he replied, making to close the door. She was faster than him though, had her foot stuck in it before he could. ‘You’re causing a scene,’ he hissed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Like you did in the shop, you mean?’</p><p> </p><p>He regarded her with a loathsome expression, but was clearly considering this for in the next moment he had stepped aside. She went straight to the living room but didn’t sit down, choosing instead to pace up and down in front of the window. He emerged from the hallway a moment later and threw himself down in the armchair, which sat at the opposite end of the room, with a huff. He won’t look at her, his gaze instead trained on the floral rug.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not that you seem remotely interested but I’ve actually had a difficult few days. A friend of mine got hurt-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Oh, boo, did Potter break a nail!’</p><p> </p><p>She stopped her pacing and fixed him with a glare to rival one of his own. ‘That’s really unfair when you don’t know what I’ve been going through.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then tell me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I… well, I can’t really do that either…’ she said, lamely.</p><p> </p><p>He made a disgusted noise, issued from the back of his throat. ‘Then remind me why you’re here again?’</p><p> </p><p>She feels deflated but persists with a new tact. ‘Severus,’ she begins, and saying his name seems to stir something in him. He looks at her, anyway. ‘We’re still learning each other. We have to respect the fact that there are some things we will want to share with one another in our own time. I’m sure there are things you wouldn’t feel ready sharing with me yet.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm… be that at is it may, you could still have <em>told me</em> you weren’t going to come. I’m not some savage, I would have understood.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry, but I had no way of contacting you. We need to get you a mobile phone.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Absolutely not.’</p><p> </p><p>‘“Absolutely not” in the same that you were “absolutely not” going to tutor me in Potions?’</p><p> </p><p>He glared at her. ‘It’s not funny. You could have sent your Patronus.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Because that would have looked inconspicuous, bounding down Spinner’s End, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I’m not sure I can do the thing where you make them talk. It’s barely corporeal these days,’ she explained. He slumped back in the chair with his arms folded like a petulant child, refusing to look at her again. She moved towards him with a sigh and perched beside him on the chair’s arm. ‘Your worrying is quite endearing,’ she said, softly. Though it looks to be against his will, she senses she is slowly cajoling him out of his ill-temper. He folds his arms a little tighter and shifts away from her, in an attempt to disguise this fact. Then her hand his on his right bicep, pulling his arms apart. Her fingers wrap loosely around his thumb.</p><p> </p><p>‘Who says I was worried?’ he grunted.</p><p> </p><p>She has to laugh at that. ‘I’m sorry to say you’ve lost some of the stealth you had as a spy, Severus. It was rather obvious, I’m afraid to tell you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t like being made a fool of.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That was never my intention. I can assure of <em>that</em>, at least.’ She shifted to a crouching position in front of him, giving him no option but to look at her properly. ‘Can we reset?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He looked down at where her hands are now on his knees. This could be mistaken as being for the practical purpose of needing to stabilise herself, but her thumbs are rubbing circles against the inside of his legs, and she can feel something almost electrical between them. He stares at her, then huffs once more, clearly for effect, before saying, ‘I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you at the shop. That was… not acceptable.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she agrees. ‘And I’m glad you realise that. Just… don’t let it happen again.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It will,’ he replied, resignedly.</p><p> </p><p>She stands and moves to the settee, watching as his hands brush across his knees where hers had sat just moments before. ‘You speak as if you have no control over it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not a very nice person.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm, well, I would respectfully disagree. Look, Severus, what happened the other night-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-It was a mistake, I know, but-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-That’s not what I was going to say,’ she said, with a reassuring smile.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ he mumbled.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t regret it. Do you?’</p><p> </p><p>He looked thoughtful, his lips twitching as though he daren’t let himself speak for fear of what he might say. She wouldn’t blame him if, after she hadn’t shown up on Sunday, he had <em>very much</em> regretted what had happened. She also had to wonder whether his current attitude didn’t reek of self-preservation, an attempt to reject before he was rejected. ‘No,’ he responded, at length.</p><p> </p><p>‘Then let’s reset.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They take a walk by the river before sunset. The water is grey, like the rest of Cokeworth, and some kids have upturned a trolley into it, but she doesn’t notice these things. She’s too preoccupied casting furtive glances as Severus’s profile as he walks beside her. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his Harrington jacket and he isn’t saying much, but the prickly unease he’d had about him earlier in the day has dissipated. Even in her exhaustion, she feels a pleasant contentment just at being with him again. She does most of the talking and a dreamy look comes over his face when she does, like he’s remembering the voice from his dreams and finding solace in hearing it again. She feels them gradually settle back into something resembling the atmosphere they’d had between them before; before the kiss. </p><p> </p><p>In the midst of everything that happened with Wendell, she hadn’t had a moment, really, to consider the kiss since the night it happened; to consider why it happened or what it had meant. To <em>understand</em> it, like she likes to understand all things. For a brief, shocking, moment, she had even wondered whether she would ever understand it. All she could do was trust the pleasing sense of rightness it had brought over her. She could only surmise that Severus felt similarly, otherwise, she didn’t think he would be here with her right now.</p><p> </p><p>They move away from the river bank, eventually, turning into the park and ascending the path towards the East entrance, where they’ll emerge close to her house. As they reach the end of her street she realises he’s slowed his pace slightly, trying to catch his breath following the steady incline they’ve just mounted. It seems disproportionate though, the way he gasps, and she recognises he is trying to mask it from her. Eventually, he stops completely to cough violently into the crook of his arm.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ugh! Sorry,’ he manages, after a moment, as he takes deep, ragged breaths to compose himself.</p><p> </p><p>‘You OK now?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he rasps. ‘Just… unfit.’</p><p> </p><p>She’s sceptical as she pats his back a few times and they move on down the darkening street. They reach her front door, just as the sun disappears, and turn to face each other awkwardly. Hermione had been pondering their moment of departure for almost the entire length of the walk; she knew how <em>she</em> wanted it to unfold, preferably with his lips pressed against hers again, but couldn’t be sure that’s what Severus wanted. He was still being a little stiff with her.</p><p> </p><p>The next moment, though, he exhaled sharply and said, ‘come here,’ before pulling her into his arms. He held her closely and she felt herself melt into him comfortably. He has one arm around her shoulders, the other hand on the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair. ‘I <em>was</em> worried,’ he whispered. She smiled into his chest. ‘And… and now I’m worried it’s going to happen again, that I won’t see you again.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m at the hospital until late tomorrow, but can we brew on Saturday?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Anyone would think you’re just using me for my Potions skills,’ he said, moving out of the embrace so he could look at her face, eyebrow cocked, though his hands remained on her lower back.</p><p> </p><p>She smiled up at him. ‘Well, they’d be mistaken,’ she said, stretching up and placing a peck on his lips. It wasn’t like their previous kisses, exploratory and free, that wouldn’t feel right after they day they’d had, but she wants him to know it is certainly more than just his Potions skills she’s interested in.</p><p> </p><p>He’s grinning when they part. ‘I suppose that’ll be fine, then.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I <em>will</em> see you then,’ she confirmed.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She comes on Saturday, slightly earlier, even, than they had arranged. He silently appreciates this given the state of absolute agitation he has gotten himself into over it. Nothing she had said the other day had completely assuaged his anxieties, he was not a trustful man, but his longing for her, the draw of her, overpowers all of that for the moment. He remembers again what Minerva had said to him that time on the Astronomy Tower: ‘It’s like you <em>want</em> to be punished.’ He recognises that he has been rendered completely insensible by her but has not the power to resist. Knows he’s being a fool; can’t help himself.</p><p> </p><p>‘New pots?’ she said, nodding towards the three new stewing pots that now stood alongside her pewter cauldron on the stove. ‘Hey, what happened there?’ she asked, running her finger along a dent that had occurred when he threw it the floor the other day. He’d tried to hammer it out, but had only succeeded in making it bumpy and, if anything, more noticeable.</p><p> </p><p>‘Erm… I… had an accident,’ he lies. He knew what it made him look like that he’d lost his temper like that; aggressive and violent. She’s watching him with narrowed eyes and he realises she knows he’s not being truthful. ‘More of a paroxysm, than an accident,’ he concedes, avoiding her gaze as her moves across the room and turns on the hobs under the pots. ‘I’ll buy you a new one.’ He hears her mutter a <em>Reparo</em> behind him, followed by small metallic clang, and when he turns the cauldron looks good as new, though Hermione still doesn’t look thrilled.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’d like to go back to Memory Potions again today,’ she says, ‘really focus on strengthening them. I’ve been reading up on the effects of Memory Potions combined with Baruffio’s Brain Elixir. I’d like to explore a sort of hybrid of the two.’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned at her quizzically. ‘Is that likely to be on an exam?’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s scope for experimentation,’ she replied, not looking at him as she pulled out ingredients from a bag.</p><p> </p><p>‘If you say so,’ he said, unconvinced but not wanting to argue again. Things still felt a bit delicate. ‘So, what do you envision?’</p><p> </p><p>‘The stewed mandrakes are the primary ingredient in the Memory Potion, and the Runespoor Eggs are the primary ingredient in the elixir. I’m thinking if we increase the quantities of these, work out the ratios of the other ingredients we need to balance them, then we should produce a more potent concoction.’ She dropped the mandrakes into one of the pots to start stewing then looked at him, presumably for some reassurance.</p><p> </p><p>‘How did you fail your last exam?’ he asked, ‘Specifically?’</p><p> </p><p>She hesitated. ‘I made a Memory Potion that didn’t work,’ she then explained. ‘I was nervous and didn’t get my quantities right, so it was weak and…’ she trailed off, looking pensively into the middle distance for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>‘I presume that, not only did it not work, it made matters worse?’ he asked. Of course, he understood what not getting the measures right could do to a Memory Potion.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded, looking too stricken to speak.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hey,’ he said, gently, though nothing really sounded gentle in his damaged, husky voice. He reached a hand out to her shoulder. ‘We’ll get it right this time.’</p><p> </p><p>He had known Hermione since she was eleven-years-old. As her teacher (although he didn’t like to dwell on the fact he had ever been such), he had endured her constant barrage of questions, her know-it-all demeanour, he essays that stretched many inches beyond the required parchment length. He hadn’t been so dissimilar in his own youth; still was, really. Pursuit of knowledge was a characteristic he could admire, find attractive, even. But there was something else behind this patent desperation of hers. For now, he would content himself with the belief that it was one of those things she wasn’t ready to tell him. Not yet, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>‘OK,’ she said, sniffing and composing herself. She picked up the knife and he could see that her hands were shaking.</p><p> </p><p>‘Steady,’ he said, moving behind her as he had before, one hand on the small of her back and the other over hers on the knife. He guided her over, and through, the frog’s brain. He could smell her shampoo but endeavoured to ignore it. ‘With these, it’s about precision. You want to extricate the cerebellum and you don’t want any midbrain and spinal cord attached, they’ll only… they’ll only negate the effects of the Jobberknoll… feathers.’ He removed his hand from hers and wiped his clammy palm on his jeans. Steady <em>indeed</em>. She’d eased into him as they dissected the brain, perhaps not even aware herself that she had done so, and it had sent him a little heady. He determined it was better to watch her finish them from a distance.</p><p> </p><p>He did so for a while, loitering near the sink and offering verbal advice, biting his tongue when his instinct was to reprimand her technique. He notes the way her hair frizzes and her cheeks blush in the heat; the way her tongue sticks between her teeth when she’s concentrating and how she mutters the method under her breath as she re-reads through it for the hundredth time.</p><p> </p><p>She grinds the stewed mandrakes in the mortar, just as he’d shown her previously, and sliced or diced all the other ingredients. Soon there is a fine concoction brewing in her cauldron and she takes out her wand to begin the Charms part of the procedure. She raised it, began the incantation.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, cutting her off. He pinched the bridge of his nose. She stiffened, bracing herself against the worktop. ‘You’re not concentrating!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah? I wonder why?’ she snaps back, looking over at him, her eyes burning with something he doesn’t quite understand. He swallows as, in the next moment, she approaches him and hesitantly snakes her arms around his waist. ‘I wonder why I could be so distracted?’</p><p> </p><p>This Gryffindor forwardness was going to take some getting used to. He stared back at her then felt his mouth twist into an unwilling smile. He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. ‘This is important to you,’ he said, gesturing at the potion. ‘You need to focus. Other… <em>things</em> can wait.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm,’ she pouted. <em>God, those lips</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘Look,’ he sighed, bringing his hands to her shoulders, where her loose curls hung about appealingly. He tugged one of them between his forefinger and thumb, before releasing it and watching as it bounced back into place. The softness of it buoys him, transmits some of her Gryffindor bravery to him. ‘I don’t really understand what’s going on here, between us, but I know I… like it, and I know I don’t want anything to ruin it, by which I mean, <em>I</em> don’t want to ruin it. So, all I ask is that we take it slow, take each day as it comes.’ He screwed up his eyes as his traitorous mind chimed: ‘<em>she was your student; you’re a filthy old man; she’s half your age; she deserves better</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Agreed,’ she said, beaming at him.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head and leant down to kiss the smile off her face before speaking again: ‘And there is something you should know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh?’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s few things I hate more than a ruined potion,’ he explained, calmly, ‘and yours is currently boiling over!’</p><p> </p><p>She turned to look over her shoulder at where the cauldron was, indeed, ejecting its contents. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed now. With a little chuckle, she released him and turned down the heat on the hob. ‘It’s not ruined… now, you were about criticise my wand-work, I believe.’</p><p> </p><p>‘So I was,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘You need to be more assertive.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Show me?’ she said, holding out her wand to him.</p><p> </p><p>He reaches for it but hesitates before his fingers touch the wood. He could feel the magic bristling, calling out to him. If he’d thought making potions might bring him too close to his old world, then using a wand would likely immerse him. He considered the fact he’d just had Hermione’s arms wrapped around him, had kissed her again. It seemed he was being immersed anyway, whether he liked it or not. He gripped the handle end of the wand and held it up. He could tell it wasn’t <em>his</em> wand, it didn’t fit like an extension of his arm, but he could feel a thrumming in his palm, a tingling in his fingers, and sensed completeness.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Redemption</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N There is some hanky-panky in this chapter. I have changed the rating of this story to mature, just to be on the safe side. I don’t write smut (because I am rubbish at it and don’t like to) but this comes pretty close.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They don’t know each other, not really. They just know what they feel and know it feels right.</p><p> </p><p>As rain spatters against the windows of number 7, they spend long afternoons reading; silent and intent on their own tomes, but present and together. She lounges with her back against the arm of the settee, her knees bent and her toes perhaps an inch from his thigh. He notices and gives her foot a squeeze as he stands to make them tea. Sometimes she feels his eyes on her and when she meets his gaze he asks her to read out loud. She’s self-conscious but she’d do anything to see that tranquil look that comes over his features when she does, that almost imperceptible smile that spreads across his face. She kisses it, before it fades. Then, other times, she sits close to him, leaning against his chest as he lays a languid arm over her middle. He brushes his lips against the top of her head.</p><p> </p><p>They continue to practice Potions. He is firm in her need to concentrate but more generous with his gentle ministrations towards her; his hand is more regularly on the small of her back, touching her shoulder, or brushing her hair out of her eyes. She still catches him behind her, sometimes, with pursed lips as he suppresses some caustic remark, but he’ll kiss her too, when she’s done a job well.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he could ever tire of kissing her, in fact. They find their rhythm in this; their noses no longer spar with one another, they know the intensity they prefer. She tastes sweet, like her sugar quills, and he, of spearmint. He is unaccustomed to the willingness with which she touches him, allows him to touch her. There is an electricity in their caresses, which lingers long after they’ve moved apart. They are learning one another with the passion they have both always devoted to their learning; their pace measured and approach meticulous.</p><p> </p><p>The weather is improving, as Spring arrives. It’s warmer and the nights are lighter. They take walks together, by the river, through the park, and the woods. He keeps his hands dug deep inside his pockets until he thinks they’re safe from prying eyes, then he takes her hand in his, interlaces their fingers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling more confident, he’ll throw an arm around her shoulders, draw her closer, bury his nose in her mane of curls. She’ll laugh that mellifluous laugh that makes his stomach do somersaults. He gets excited about the sprouting of new buds, scowls when this makes her laugh too. She takes to pressing the creases between his brow, smoothing them out. He humours her, for a short while, then swats her away and undoes her work with a frown.</p><p> </p><p>They place a blanket down over the grass, under an oak, in the park; he lays on his back with hands behind his head, dappled light dancing over his skin. She lays beside him, facing him, propping herself up on one arm and tracing her fingers over is chest. He wears one of his faded black polo t-shirts, as always, buttoned right to the top. She circles the buttons as her hands moves up and then across the collar, where the scars from Nagini’s bite peak out. She hesitates and then touches the silvery-pink skin with her fingertip. He opens his eyes, but says nothing, allowing her to trace over the ridges.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do they hurt?’ she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about this for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ he replies. ‘They’re tight and my shirts rub against them.’</p><p> </p><p>She places her palm flat against chest, then he brings his hand up to hers, moves it away from his neck and kisses it before releasing her. He closes his eyes again and she snuggles into his side.</p><p> </p><p>There are other times when they must catch snatches of time together, here and there when her schedule allows. She visits him briefly between shifts at the shop and shifts at the hospital. He makes her strong coffees and makes sure she eats. Tells her he knows what it’s like, being constantly on the go. Tells her it’s important to look after herself. She falls asleep on the velvet settee and he places an old crochet blanket over her. He does not say it, so it is in these ways that she knows he cares.</p><p> </p><p>She realises she has started to care for him too, <em>really</em> care for him, one day when he comes in the shop as normal. He’d stood across from her and murmured a nervous salutation before glancing down the aisles, apparently to confirm he was the only customer in there. Then he’d stretched across the counter and placed a kiss on her lips. It was brief, but filled with warmth, and she felt herself blush. He still barely held her hand in public, so such a bold move, even though there wasn’t really anyone else about, had been rather lovely indeed.</p><p> </p><p>‘I just came in for that and some cigarettes,’ he says, his lip twitching.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls them down from the rack behind her, places them on the counter, but finds she stops short of handing them over. He reaches out to take them but she doesn’t relent. He raises a quizzical eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t buy these,’ she says, quietly, perhaps a little pleadingly.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘They’re <em>so</em> bad for you.’</p><p> </p><p>He’s looking between her and cigarettes when Mr. Green emerges from the back room. ‘Oh, you again, Snape,’ he says, ‘what’s going on here? Why is there always an issue when you come in this shop?’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s no issue, Mr. Green,’ Hermione says. Reluctantly, but with little choice, she slides the cigarettes across the counter to Severus. He picks them up hesitantly, his gaze never leaving her, and tucks them into his jacket pocket and pays for them.</p><p> </p><p>That night she visits him at home and they argue furiously about it. He tells her she has no right to try and change him; she says she just wants him to be healthy, she tells him it’s just because she cares. He seems taken aback, like the notion is incomprehensible to him, and acquiesces that it might do him good to cut down, he supposes. It’s their first proper fight, not counting the misunderstanding when she disappeared to Monica and Wendell’s, and they can laugh about it afterwards, not realising it will be a fight they come to have often.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a few weeks, maybe longer, and they sit on a bench in the park, in a spot that overlooks the whole town, watching the sun dip behind the phalanxes of houses and factory chimneys. He stretches an arm behind her, his fingers in her hair. When he plays with her curls she knows he is building to something.</p><p> </p><p>‘I was wondering,’ he said, his eyes on the horizon, ‘whether you’d like to come over for dinner, one day next week?’</p><p> </p><p>She thinks of the TV Guides he used to buy as an excuse to visit her in the shop even though he dared not speak to her; she thinks of the hangover potion he made her, the night they’d eaten Pot Noodles, Potions and foraging, and then the curry. She thinks how far they have come since then and she suspects this might be an invitation to something more.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’d love to,’ she replies.</p><p> </p><p>He nods once, his eyes still fixed on the burnt orange sky.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>To be forewarned is to be forearmed,</em> Hermione thought, ruefully, as she stepped into the kitchen of number 12 Grimmauld Place and greeted Talia Murray. She had spent the day in tutorials at St. Mungo’s, something her aching feet and tired eyes were all too aware of, and had been looking forward to a quiet evening with Harry and Ginny. However, when Ginny had opened the door to let her in, it was with whispered apologies that Ron and Talia had popped round unannounced.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s fine,’ Hermione assured her friend, with a weak smile. It wasn’t a lie; since Hermione had ended their relationship they had, as Ron promised they would, managed to salvage something of their friendship. But, and perhaps it was just Hermione imagining it, there was still, always, a subtle awkwardness whenever they saw one another. Before Talia, Harry would joke that Ron still held a flame for Hermione, and they would both laugh it off, somewhat half-heartedly, which didn’t help.</p><p> </p><p>Talia was sat at the kitchen table, swilling red wine around in a glass. Hermione was suddenly very conscious of how big and blue her eyes were, how naturally her hair curled about her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi, Hermione. It’s been a long time,’ she said, as Ginny indicated Hermione should take a seat and poured her a glass of wine from the bottle she and Talia had already made a start on.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, hi. You look well,’ Hermione replied, earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>‘The men are in the shed,’ Ginny explained, topping up her own glass, ‘drinking beer while Harry asks Ron to be his best man. We’ve set a date for the wedding, you see,’ she then announced, rather nonchalantly. She pulled out two small envelopes, evidently containing invites, from behind a ceramic chicken egg basket next to the sink. ‘August 4<sup>th</sup>, right between our birthdays, and our favourite time of year. It’ll be at The Burrow; out of the way of prying eyes, just family and close friends. Obviously, I have <em>a lot</em> of sister-in-laws so I’ve told them they can’t be my bridesmaids - I also don’t like the idea of being outshone by Fleur on my wedding day, thank you very much! – and I was wondering whether you two, and Luna, of course, would do me the honour?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ said Hermione, ‘Ginny, I’d love to!’ She stood, beaming, and embraced Ginny.</p><p> </p><p>Talia was equally as enthusiastic, adding, ‘although we are <em>practically</em> sister-in-laws, I hope the others won’t mind?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You were my friend before you went out with Ron,’ Ginny shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>They toasted Ginny and Harry before talk turned to dresses, colour schemes, and flower arrangements and the evening got away from them in a haze of laughter, planning, food and wine. Hermione found she rather enjoyed Talia’s company and could see that she and Ron were well-matched; Talia shared his peculiar sense of humour in a way Hermione never had.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’ll notice your invite includes a plus one,’ Ginny pointed out to Hermione after a discussion about the invite list. ‘Anyone in mind who you might bring?’ she asked, eyebrow quirked questioningly and her tongue stuck between her teeth mischievously.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ Hermione murmured. She thought of Severus, she hadn’t seen him for a few days, it was a few days longer until they’d managed to schedule dinner, and she realised she missed him, but the mere idea of him attending Harry Potter’s wedding was simply ludicrous. ‘No,’ she said, in answer to Ginny’s question and hiding her face behind her wine glass. She also considered the ease with which she found she could lie to her friends, or at the very least mislead them, about her life in Cokeworth.</p><p> </p><p>‘That was a suspiciously long pause you took before answering,’ Ginny chuckled. ‘I’ve known you a long time, Hermione, and I know when you’re fibbing!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Am not,’ she feebly protested.</p><p> </p><p>‘Is it your fit housemate, with the beard?’ Ginny persisted. ‘Or some fancy Healer man?’</p><p> </p><p>‘None of the above,’ Hermione held fast.</p><p> </p><p>Talia remained silent with a strange smile on her face, <em>maybe</em> a satisfied smirk, but her expression quickly changed, as did Hermione’s and Ginny’s, when the next moment, Harry and Ron came back inside.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione has a secret boyfriend,’ Ginny announced, giggling like a school girl, the moment Harry, Ron entered the room.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>I do not</em>!’ Hermione said, feeling her cheeks burn. She glanced at Ron, despite herself, and saw his ears turning pink as well; that tell-tale sign… He sat beside Talia and threw an arm around her with an impassive expression.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, yeah?’ Harry smirked, wrapping his own arms around Ginny’s shoulders from behind and kissing her temple. Hermione watched Ginny melt into him, always acutely aware of these small moments of affection in her friends’ relationships and previously often a little envious of them; now they made her think of the way her hand fit in Severus’s, how he fingered her curls, how good it felt to lean her head against his chest, and how he didn’t want anyone know about them…</p><p> </p><p>‘Who’s the lucky guy?’ Ron asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘No one!’</p><p> </p><p>‘She’s going to bring him as her plus one to the wedding,’ Ginny said.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not,’ Hermione laughed, shaking her head.</p><p> </p><p>‘Methinks you doth protest too much,’ Harry said, releasing Ginny and dropping into the chair beside her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Methinks you’re an idiot,’ Hermione retorted.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus took several long walks in the marshes in the days after he’d invited Hermione for dinner, mulling over his tempest of emotions, and hoping the lapping of the water, the cawing of a long-legged bird, and the fresh Spring winds would wipe the thunderous refrain of ‘<em>she was your student; you’re a filthy old man; she’s half your age; she deserves better</em>,’ out of his head. When she’s with him he is rarely burdened by these thoughts, so consumed is he with his feelings for her, but when she’s left, and he is alone again, they intrude his mind and leave him feeling despondent and shameful.</p><p> </p><p>He sat on his favourite hillock at sunset, not smoking, although he desperately wanted to, and watching the last starling murmurations of the season. He already yearned for their return at the end of Autumn. The murmurations are really the only things that can spare him from the relentless churn of his mind; the mesmeric patterns, like swirling wisps of smoke, undulating and rippling across the evening sky, almost hypnotising.</p><p> </p><p>He could be the only person left in the world out here on the marshes; just him and the wildlife. This is a thought that would once have brought him comfort, but now he has Hermione in is in life, he thinks perhaps he’d like her here too, at the end of the world, at the end of time. He’ll bring her here, one day soon, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>On his way home, Severus also visited Tesco, stopping his trolley at the end of the electronics aisle and then, reluctantly, turning down it. <em>Absolutely not</em>, he reminded himself, as he looked over the selection of mobile phones on offer.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus had taken to leaving the door unlocked so Hermione can let herself in when he knows she’s coming. She’d spent the day at St. Valentine’s, willing the hours to pass so she could see him again, then she’d popped home to shower and change before making her way to Spinner’s End. She entered and hung up her coat on the bannister. From here she can see Severus in the kitchen, his back to her and The Stone Roses playing so loudly he clearly hasn’t heard her enter. She notices he’s wearing a shirt, she hasn’t seen him in anything other than t-shirts, vests, and his jacket in all these months. She has to smile at the domesticity of the scene before her; there’s still something decidedly discordant about the idea of Severus Snape pottering about the kitchen. She creeps behind him and slides her arms around his waist; he starts, but upon realising its her, quickly calms. He reaches out to the old tape player and turns down the music.</p><p> </p><p>‘You really shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,’ he says, wriggling free of her grip and turning to face her with a deep frown.</p><p> </p><p>The shirt is dark grey and, customarily, buttoned to the top. She swallows; he looks really quite handsome in it. She presses her finger gently against the lines between his eyes, smoothing them out. He sighs and his features soften.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry. Start again?’ she asks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘Sorry for snapping. I just don’t like being startled.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Noted… Oh!’ she exclaimed, looking down at the contents of the pans that bubbled steadily on the stove.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I half expected we would be having Pot Noodles,’ she chuckled.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head and returned to the food he was preparing. ‘The skills required for cooking are not so vastly different from those required for potion-making,’ he said, stirring whatever was in the pot.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, snaking her arms around his middle again and resting her head between his shoulder blades. She felt him relax slightly. ‘I don’t suppose they are, and, as we have discussed, you are a more than proficient potion-maker.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he mumbled, adding a little pepper to the sauce, ‘though I am decidedly better when I’m not distracted.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine,’ she said, understanding his inference and with feigned haughtiness releasing him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Wait,’ he said, holding onto her wrist and pulling her into a kiss, the taste of whatever he was cooking on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>She smiled up at him, satisfied, when he released her, and dropped into one of the chairs at the tiny kitchen table. ‘It really does smell delicious,’ she reassured him.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s just a chili. Not too spicy, don’t worry.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mexican… you remembered that’s my favourite cuisine, from that stupid drinking game at Christmas?’</p><p> </p><p>She watched his shoulders shrug from behind and couldn’t help but smile. She had long ago realised that he made these mental notes, that nothing was meaningless to him. He’d said himself that you could tell a lot about a person from their favourite colour; he could tell a lot about a person from the slightest change of tone, the most fleeting expression, all the small details, subtleties and minutiae. He took it all in, stored it, used it later; sometimes for good, sometimes for ill.</p><p> </p><p>‘You had a good day?’ he asked, grinding something in the mortar.</p><p> </p><p>This made her smile too. Not that he didn’t ordinarily take an interest in her life, but such trivial small talk meant he was nervous. That would make two of them. ‘Yeah. Actually, this might be of interest to you, they’re transferring me to the Poisons, Toxins and Venoms Ward for a few weeks.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you request that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. We don’t get a say. If you’re worried it might present a conflict of interest though, don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way if you’re ever in for a checkup or anything.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Why would I be?’ There was a slight bite to his tone that she knew he was trying hard to curtail.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m just saying…,’ she said, with a slightly incredulous shake of her head, which he wouldn’t see as his back was still turned to her. The more time she spent with him, the more she began to suspect that he was not being entirely honest about the state of his health. But evidently tonight was not the most opportune moment to push him on this. Perhaps for now a change of subject was the best way forwards. ‘What did you do today?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not much. Food shopping,’ he grumbled. ‘Actually…’ He turned to her, biting his bottom lip. He seemed to consider something for a moment and then left the room, returning shortly with a small box in his hand. ‘I bought this,’ he said, handing it over. It transpired to be a brand new mobile phone, albeit a rather clunky looking Nokia. ‘I thought you might help me… work it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You bought a phone?’ she chuckled. ‘What happened to them being “Muggle abominations,” “a scourge on humankind?”’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t remember saying that at all!’ he said, avoiding her eye as he went back to the stove.</p><p> </p><p>‘Those were just the sentiments you expressed that I dare repeat, the ones that aren’t profanity laden!’</p><p> </p><p>‘If you’re going to laugh at me, I still have the receipt. I can return it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, no! We’ll have a look at it after dinner,’ she assured him.</p><p> </p><p>When the food was ready he placed it in the middle of the small kitchen table; the chili, rice, corn bread, and a salad. He’d even bought her wine, having ascertained that she liked a good red, though he himself stuck to beer.</p><p> </p><p>‘This all really is lovely,’ she told him, watching his impassive face as he ladled food onto her plate. ‘It’s not often I get a meal cooked for me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If you don’t like it, I <em>do</em> have some Pot Noodles,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t be so cynical,’ she chided.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm… No, really, it’s nice to have someone to cook for,’ he said, serving himself and then sitting down in the seat opposite. ‘Cooking and having to wash up for one seems like a waste.’</p><p> </p><p>‘To good food and better company, then,’ she said, beaming at him and holding up her wine glass. He nodded and chinked his bottle of beer against the side of it. ‘Let’s see if you really are as proficient at cooking as you are at potions-making, then,’ she added, putting a forkful of chili in her mouth; the sauce was rich and flavoursome, the beef tender, and it was made with just the right amount of spice. All she could manage was to make affirmative noises as she realised, not only that it really was quite delicious, but also, that she was ravenous.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hungry?’ he asks, his eyes glinting, as he watched her quickly clean half her plate.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry,’ she said, through a mouthful. ‘Haven’t eaten all day.’</p><p> </p><p>He tutted. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that,’ he said, shaking his head. Then, he picked up his own fork and started on his meal. To have someone cook for her, take care of her, notice her, were all quite novel experiences that caused a warm swelling in her chest. Hermione had always been more than alright on her own, but still, it was quite lovely. ‘You look nice tonight,’ he continued then, his eyes on his food now and his cheeks a little blushed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ she said, her own cheeks reddening. ‘You’re just not used to seeing me in make-up,’ she added, laughing.</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t need that to look nice,’ he mumbled.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>You</em> look good in your shirt,’ she said, watching him carefully.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head dismissively. ‘You’re just not used to seeing me in one.’ She’d anticipated, as they’d got to know each other better, that this self-consciousness and self-deprecation of his might dissipate, but, indeed, it remained steadfast. He wasn’t at all like he had been in school. She could not have imagined that the arrogance and conceit he had worn when he taught had masked this anxious, skittish interior. He seemed perpetually unsure and nervous, in a manner she would not have thought him capable. But, did she not often observe how the war had changed people?</p><p> </p><p>They chatted amiably while they ate, her teasing more information from him about his day, and he making genuine enquiries now about her new assignment to the Poisons, Toxins and Venoms Ward. After they’d finished their meal she washed up by magic to save them both a job and they retired to the living where they sat side-by-side on the tiny settee trying to figure out the phone.</p><p> </p><p>‘So,’ she said, expending a lot of energy on being patient, ‘say you want to say “hi,” you press four twice – no, quicker! – yes, like that, and then… yeah, that’s it, you press four, three times, in quick succession, ahuh… Then just press “send.”’ The message sent and her own phone’s screen lit up.</p><p> </p><p>‘I can’t think what I would ever have to say to anyone that it wouldn’t be better to wait until I saw them in person.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well… what did you use to send Patronuses for, or owls?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Order stuff, mainly. Certainly not <em>socialising</em>, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied, clearly disgusted at the very notion.</p><p> </p><p>‘Heaven forbid! Well, you can text me anytime, about anything. Or call me, of course. Here, let me show you how to add other people’s numbers.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What for?’</p><p> </p><p>‘So that you can add other people’s numbers, obviously,’ she said, with an elaborate eye roll.</p><p> </p><p>‘Who else’s numbers would I need?’ he asked, seemingly genuinely baffled. ‘And I certainly don’t want anyone else calling <em>me</em>!’</p><p> </p><p>She chuckled. ‘OK,’ she relented, ‘I’ll teach you some abbreviations, and how to do little faces with punctuation marks then.’</p><p> </p><p>He scowled but allowed her to do this, which she did, for a while, sat back against his chest so he could see her screen, before realising he was just humouring her. When she twisted around to look at him, it was to find he was barely even paying attention, just watching her with a little grin on his face that somehow made him look younger. She realised from his dreamy expression he’d just been listening to her voice, the way he did when she read to him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Keep going,’ he said, when she paused.</p><p> </p><p>‘One more,’ she said. ‘An “X,” like this,’ she continued, typing one into her phone and pressing “send,” ‘is a kiss.’</p><p> </p><p>His phone vibrated (indeed, the first thing he’d insisted she do was mute it) on the settee arm and he opened the message. ‘Hm,’ he said, staring at the screen for a moment before his eyes flashed back to her with a roguish glint in them. ‘Those, I <em>know</em>, are better in person,’ he added.</p><p> </p><p>She held his gaze and felt a licentious smile dance about her mouth. ‘<em>Definitely</em>,’ she agreed, and the next moment their lips had met. His hands returned initially to his favourite place; tangled in the curls of her hair, then he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, before sliding them along the length of her torso…</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>After a moment, his hand wandering up the inside of her top, he pulled away gently. ‘Upstairs?’ he asked, with a worried expression, like he was anticipating rejection. ‘I’m too old to do this on a settee,’ he clarified, with a more rueful look. She took in their current circumstances; her laid on her back, almost, on the little two-seater, him above her, one knee bent on the velvet cushioning, holding his body weight, and the other leg stretched to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ she breathed.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded and heaved himself to a standing position, pulling her up with him. He led her up the stairs. She’d been up here before, to use the bathroom, but had never seen inside either of the two bedrooms. She followed him into the front room, the master, where he swiftly pulled closed the curtains and lit a bedside lamp. He seemed to have made some attempts to assuage the florals in this room. Though the wallpaper still had a rather gaudy pattern, peeling though it was in a corner near the window, the bedsheets were a dark green and the rug was a plain green too. As they sat beside one another on the edge of the bed, the mattress gave a decided creek.</p><p> </p><p>‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he said, and when he said it, she could almost believe him. She was under no illusion that she was some great beauty; she was short, a little dumpy, even, she’d always thought, with hair that never did as it was told and rather plain features. He pushed a stray curl behind her ear, then cupped her cheek and brought her into another kiss. ‘Have you… done this before?’ he asked, pulling away again after a moment, always too soon, and looking nervous in anticipation of her response.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ she replied, in little more than a whisper. He looks to relax somewhat at that. She thinks of the inexperienced fumbling, the clumsy experimentation, Ron and she had done in the summer after the war. It had been fun, exciting, a new type of escapism, but she’s not even sure it really counts. There hadn’t been anyone else since, not more than a drunken kiss on a rare night out with the other trainee Healers. It was something else she was good at convincing herself she was too busy to pursue. She didn’t feel she had pursued things with Severus, rather that they had just happened, and she suspected with Severus things would be quite different to before. ‘Have… you?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He chuckled softly. ‘Yes. Err… I have condoms,’ he said, ‘or we can use a charm. Whatever you prefer?’</p><p> </p><p>‘My wand’s downstairs.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded and withdrew a condom from a box inside the bedside table, discarding it, for the moment beside the lamp. She noticed the box was perhaps only half-full, which gave her pause for thought, but the way he was trailing kisses along her jaw, quickly distracted her. His touches are tender, considered and, unsure in her inexperience, she was happy to follow his lead.</p><p> </p><p>Whilst still kissing her, he eased her back into a lying position. She could feel his hardness, beneath his trousers, against her thigh. Her own hands became more exploratory; unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his pale skin, the smattering of dark hair across his strong chest and softer stomach. She ran her hands over him, then down beneath the line of his belt.</p><p> </p><p>He put his hand over hers there, looking down at her with an almost impish mischievousness in his expression. ‘As nice as that is,’ he said, softly, through a smirk, ‘wait, or this’ll be over before it’s started.’ She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. He divested her of her own top and then, straddling her, turned his attentions to her breasts. She heard herself panting, soft moans escaping her unbidden, as a steady heat builds inside her. She ran her hands through his hair, gripped his back. She hadn’t realised it could feel like this; it most certainly <em>was</em> different with Severus.</p><p> </p><p>He pulled away again, then, sat back on his haunches, fumbled at his trouser button and pulled down his flies. He was just leaning over her again, their gazes meeting in passionate fury, when he stopped suddenly, his expression suddenly stricken. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, clambering off her and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Fuck.’</p><p> </p><p>Confused and hurt, her immediate thought was that she’d done something wrong and she felt mightily embarrassed; she cast about for her top and, finding her t-shirt, quickly threw it on inside out. But, when she looked at Severus, she found him, elbows rested on his knees, his head low and snatching fistfuls of his own hair, and she knew this was some internal despair he was experiencing. She waited, watching him, unsure of what to do and needing to take a few steadying breaths of her own as she willed her body to settle down. Eventually, she moved closer to him, on her knees across the mattress and the rumpled bedsheets, and she reached out and placed a hand over his bare shoulder blade. She felt his muscles ripple under her touch but he doesn’t flinch away so she moves tentatively closer, her arm now falling across his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s wrong?’ she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>‘God. Fuck... Sorry. I can’t,’ he groaned. ‘It’s… it’s not that I don’t want to,’ he added, quickly, glancing up at her with panic in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s alright,’ she assures him but he shakes his head, pulling at his hair again; she moves her hand to his and gently pulls them away. ‘Stop… Severus… Look at me.’ He does as she bids, with a great sadness in his eyes. ‘Let’s just… lay here, just lay beside me… come on,’ she gently urges him. She shifts back to the opposite side of the bed, waiting, hoping that he’ll follow. Eventually, with a laborious sigh, he lays down on his back with his head on a pillow and she shimmies down beside him, on her side so she can see him. He glanced down at his decidedly more lackluster open flies and threw a forearm over his closed eyes as if to shield his face.</p><p> </p><p>Tentatively, and she couldn’t have said what propelled her other than a profound sense that it seemed right, that he needed her close, Hermione maneuvered his free arm around her shoulders and settled with her head on his chest. She reached up with her hands and lay her fingers near to, but not touching, the exposed scars. ‘Is this OK?’ she asked, feeling the pounding of his heart through his ribs. She saw him give a small nod.</p><p> </p><p>They lay in silence, her listening to his rhythmic breathing, feeling the up and down of his chest, whilst her brain whirred chaotically as she searched for the right thing to say. There are intrusive thoughts, also, about the missing condoms, his visits next door to Natasha, about how he’d looked at her and then suddenly withdrawn. She attempts to dismiss them; he is here, right now, with her. In the end she determined to wait for him, however long it took. Indeed, she is not sure how much time has passed when he finally speaks again.</p><p> </p><p>He removes the arm that lays across his face and lets it fall to his side, then, where his other arm had been laid loosely around Hermione’s shoulders, he draws her closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered into the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ she assures him. ‘Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You have to know that I wanted to. I <em>really</em> wanted to.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I could tell,’ she says, grinning, which finally elicits something of a smile from him.</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled slowly, and spoke with resignation. ‘I don’t know… it’s just, when I caught your eye I was pulled out of the moment. It’s not your fault, it’s just, I was suddenly reminded of the facts of the matter.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And what are the facts of the matter?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That I’m twice your age. That I’m an ex-Death Eater. That I’m a felon, a murderer no less. That I used to be your <em>teacher</em>, for fuck’s sake!’ he paused, his voice an icy whisper. ‘That I’ll hurt you. That I’m selfish and spiteful and one day, one way or another, I <em>will</em> hurt you because… because that’s just what I do. You deserve better.’</p><p> </p><p>She withdrew from his hold and propped herself up on her arms so she could look down at him properly. ‘I don’t believe you would hurt me,’ she said, gently.</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed. ‘You don’t know me very well.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe not, but I know you would never <em>intend</em> to… And as for the other things… you’re not my teacher anymore and age is meaningless. We enjoy one another’s company, do we not? We find one another attractive, do we not?’</p><p> </p><p>He nods.</p><p> </p><p>‘Then age is just a number.’</p><p> </p><p>He sighed and shifted on to his side so they were facing one another. ‘Convince me now that it’s “meaningless” that I was a Death Eater and “meaningless” to you that I murdered Dumbledore,’ he challenged her.</p><p> </p><p>She inhaled shakily. ‘You’ve notice this before,’ she began, raising her arm which bore her Mudblood scar. He looked at it and winced before averting his gaze. ‘You’ve seen it when we’ve made potions and I’ve rolled up my sleeves and you’ve seen it on warm days which I’ve worn sundresses. I’ve seen you look at it, and then look quickly away, like you did just now. You’ve wanted to ask me what it is, why it’s there, but you never have. Why not?’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>‘Bellatrix Lestrange did it,’ she said, simply, tracing the letters with her finger. Hermione had made a decision, long ago, to reclaim the word imprinted on her arm; wear it like armor. If she did this, no one could hurt her with it again. She looked back at Severus. ‘And she did it with glee in her eyes, this manic euphoria. And then there was Greyback and Dolohov, their faces full of hatred and lust-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Hermione, you don’t-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-No, just let me finish.’ As she said this, she reached up and pushed his hair off his forehead, where it stuck against the dampness of his skin. He blinked at her, waiting. ‘Because, I saw <em>your</em> face, too. I didn’t always realise what I was seeing, at the time, but I understand now. I saw your face when Harry’s name was pulled from The Goblet of Fire; you’d have people believe you were angry, but in truth, you were scared. I saw your face, later that same year, when you revealed your Dark Mark to Fudge, full of distaste and self-loathing. I can imagine your face when you were forced to kill Dumbledore and, if I ever needed evidence of your propensity for compassion, I need look no further than your face when you asked Harry to look you in the eyes in the moments you thought you were dying, because what lay beneath that was a well of tenderness and devotion. I also saw Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall’s faces when you were in the Hospital Wing; I saw how worried they were for their friend. They wouldn’t look like that if you were the same as Bellatrix, Greyback or Dolohov. So, you see, there’s a difference between you and the other Death Eaters.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And this is how you justify this – whatever <em>this</em> is – to yourself?’ he practically spat, though she was not the target of his contempt. He was angry at himself, this much was clear. ‘You oversimplify it,’ he added, in a strained voice. ‘I was seventeen when I took the mark - of age, like Draco, who you can’t help but detest – I did it willingly and for the next three years I was an as enthusiastic a recruit as any of them.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You killed people?’</p><p> </p><p>He opened his mouth, searching for the words. ‘I… I couldn’t say for sure. I participated in raids. It’s not impossible. I tortured people, certainly.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And you enjoyed it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I wouldn’t say that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you cackle and celebrate and… get off on it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. Instead, you spent the next seventeen years trying to make up for it. You sacrificed everything. You would have given your life, if Poppy had allowed it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, and me. So, you see, it isn’t the same. I’m not saying it excuses things that you’ve done, and I certainly don’t like the idea of being reminded you were a Death Eater, but… it <em>isn’t</em> the same. I believe in redemption.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Redemption is not the same as forgiveness.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think, perhaps, its yourself who you need to forgive.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They wake the next morning in each other’s arms and a sense of calm has descended as surely as the sun has risen. Hermione felt well-rested, despite the events of the previous evening, and immense contentment at waking up in Severus’s bed. He looked at her expectantly through the weak morning light and, when she said nothing, kissed her lightly on the lips.</p><p> </p><p>‘Better this morning?’ she then asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Better,’ he said, ‘though… rather embarrassed.’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. ‘I won’t hear of it. We go slow.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, gratefully, and then they arose and freshened up; he changed his clothes as he’s still wearing the same trousers he had on last night, and she has no change of clothes so does her best the spell her current attire clean.</p><p> </p><p>Severus made toast and jam for their breakfasts and they sat at the kitchen table eating it, Severus reading a copy of <em>The Guardian</em> he got delivered every day and grumbling about Muggle politicians, whilst Hermione replied to a text from Monica. Imminently, however, there was a sound outside the kitchen window which disturbed them. Severus stood and opened the blind to reveal an impatient looking tawny owl perched on the ledge outside. </p><p> </p><p>‘For you?’ Hermione asked, perplexed. ‘Looks like a Hogwarts owl.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err…’ He opened the window, retrieved the letter, and shooed the owl away. Then, without even looking at it, he said, ‘from Minerva.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Why would Professor McGonagall write to you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know,’ he replied, tucking the letter on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard which had no door on it. ‘I don’t read them.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Them</em>? She’s written before? Why don’t you read them?’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged and sat back down opposite her. ‘So many questions,’ he said, issuing her a tired look and beginning the process of buttering a slice of toast. ‘I used to not read them because I didn’t want to be drawn back into the wizarding world. Of course, thanks to you, I’m going to have to come up with another excuse now.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm, it would be my fault,’ she said, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her coffee. He ignored her, save his mouth twisting into a smirk.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Gobstones Champion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione’s bedroom in the house she shared with Benji was simply decorated; all mismatched furniture sourced from charity shops on a student’s budget. A single bed, adorned with too many cushions and a teddy bear she’d had since she was a baby, an armchair, where she liked to sit to read, and a desk, where she spent most of her time, pouring over medical journals, writing her essays, and revising for her exams. She had made it as homely as possible, with a few photos of herself with her parents on the walls, throws on the end of her bed, and fairy lights at the head of it. She shared the bathroom and communal areas with Benji, who she got on with well enough to make living together bearable, though they had quite disparate interests.</p><p> </p><p>On a rare evening that she hadn’t spent with Severus, regrettably needing to prioritise an essay that was soon due, she was sat at her desk, focused on her work, when a rapping at the door disturbed her. She stood to find Benji stood beyond it look most uncomfortable. ‘Hi,’ he said, seemingly not knowing where to start, ‘err, sorry to bother you but… there’s, err… <em>someone</em> here to see you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she said. This was highly unusual for, with the exception of Severus, she didn’t know anyone who was likely to come knocking on the door for her. Indeed, when she followed Benji downstairs, it was to find Severus stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall and swaying slightly. ‘Oh,’ she said again, with realisation and no little consternation. Benji loitered awkwardly between them in the narrow space.</p><p> </p><p>‘Need to speak to you,’ Severus slurred, looking at her with unfocused eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re drunk.’ She’d seen Severus tipsy before, at times when she’d been tipsy alongside him, to be fair, but she had never seen him in such a state of inebriation that he was barely functioning; it was rare to see him in anything other than complete self-control.</p><p> </p><p>‘Am not,’ he responded, forcing himself to stand up straighter.</p><p> </p><p>She sighed irritably. ‘Come on,’ she said, tugging him gently by his sleeve to lead him upstairs. He took a few unsteady steps towards her, looking at her, but clearly not seeing her.</p><p> </p><p>‘You sure you’re alright, Hermione?’ Benji asked, tentatively.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>She’s fine</em>,’ Severus snarled, although given his state of intoxication it wasn’t particularly ferocious.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m am, Benji. Honestly. Thanks,’ she reassured him. ‘And sorry,’ she added. Benji looked unconvinced but with a shrug that said, ‘if you’re sure,’ disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Can you manage the stairs?’ Hermione asked, turning her attention back to Severus.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hmm.’</p><p> </p><p>She practically pushed him up the stairs before her, keeping her hands on his lower back so he wouldn’t fall, as she ascended behind him. When they reached the top, she guided him, as he stumbled over his own feet, into her little bedroom on the back of the house. He fell unceremoniously into the armchair, slumping low with a groan.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you OK?’ she asked, when he seemed settled.</p><p> </p><p>‘Come here,’ he said, holding out his arm to beckon her. She reached out for it and he pulled her clumsily onto his lap, tilting his chin upwards to kiss her.</p><p> </p><p>She let him, for a moment, tasting the beer he’d been drinking and the cigarettes he’d been smoking. She pulled away, though she suddenly felt a little warmer towards him. ‘Sorry,’ she chuckled, tenderly stroking his hair out of his face, ‘you taste horrible. What’s all this in aid of, eh?’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged, his mouth turning downwards. ‘Just thought if I had a drink that maybe… maybe I’d be able to… <em>you know</em>!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh.’</p><p> </p><p>It had been two weeks since their first failed attempt; two weeks spent pleasantly in one another’s company, doing all those things they so enjoyed doing in one another’s company. Hermione might have been offended were she the type of woman more requiring of a man’s affections, but there was no less passion in his kisses, his long, lingering looks, nor in the warmth of his embrace. No less want. But he hadn’t invited her upstairs again; he’d look at her, sometimes, like he was contemplating it, then he’d lose courage, instead just drawing her close, holding her in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>‘Got a bit-’ here he paused to hiccup, ‘-carried away… no chance now…’ he concluded, closing his eyes in surrender.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she agreed, thoughtfully, worrying one of the buttons on his t-shirt. ‘Definitely not. I think I’ll go get you some water and then we’ll go to bed.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he murmured, seemingly agreeing, though it was hard to tell whether he’d taken in a word that she’d said. His eyes were closed now, and his head was lolling to one side.</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head and rose from his lap, leaving him for a moment to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. Benji had retired to his room, thankfully, as Hermione didn’t like the idea of another of his reproving looks. Benji had mentioned that Severus had come looking for her that one time before and had not had much good to say about him since.</p><p> </p><p>When she returned to her bedroom it was to find Severus sound asleep in the armchair. His head was at an uncomfortable angle and the top button of his jeans was undone. His t-shirt has ridden up to reveal the slight convex of his pale stomach, which rose and fell with each breath, a line of black hair trailing from his waistband up to his naval. She watched him for a moment and even in that state he stirs something in her, a strange creeping warmth in her abdomen that she shakes herself rid of quickly. <em>Ridiculous</em>. She still didn’t understand, frustratingly. With a shake of her head she put the glass of water on the desk within his reach and pulled a blanket off the bed to drape over him. She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, before changing into her own pyjamas in the bathroom and soon laying in her bed, falling asleep to the sound his soft snores.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A piercing white light splits his head and he screws his eyes back shut. It was the stiffness of his back which had first awoken him, but as consciousness dawned, he became more aware of the other consequences of last night’s overindulgences; the throbbing in his temples, his arid mouth, rising nausea. He took a few deep, bracing breaths, and dared to open his eyes again. As they adjusted to light he realised that, although the room was unfamiliar, it was also distinctly Hermione, and so he surmised it must belong to her. This was confirmed when he observed the line of three photographs hung along one wall depicting her at various ages of youth alongside two adults she looked to be the perfect blend of. But, how he had come to be sat in her room, covered in a thin blanket and feeling as if he’d been trepanned, was another matter entirely.</p><p> </p><p>The door opened then, and she was stood before him, dressed but ruddy-cheeked and wet haired, clearly straight out of the shower. ‘Oh,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘Good morning.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ugh,’ he replied and, trying not to move too quickly, sat forwards and rubbed his face.</p><p> </p><p>‘Here,’ she said, and when he managed to look up she was holding out a hangover potion. He eyed it suspiciously; it was of the mass produced variety. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ she said, laughingly, apparently reading his mind. He conceded out of desperation, uncorked it, and downed it in one mouthful. It wasn’t as strong as one he would have made, but it was hard to care as a mild warmth spread through him, assuaging his symptoms.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks,’ he grunted. Now with his wits a little more about him he could take more notice of Hermione. She didn’t seem angry, he noted, watching her stood before a mirror, scrunching her damp curls in her hands in an attempt to tame them. If anything, she seemed slightly amused. ‘How’d I…’ he mumbled, gesturing vaguely at the room and hoping she would understand his inference; coherent sentences were still a little too much effort.</p><p> </p><p>‘From what I could gather,’ she said, watching him through her reflection, a mischievous smile dancing about her lips, ‘you came over to seduce me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he said, getting to his feet slowly, and with groan, before stretching his spine. ‘That does sound vaguely familiar now you’ve said it… Sorry. Was I a pain?’</p><p> </p><p>‘If anything, you were just rather pathetic,’ she admitted, turning back to him, leaning against her desk and folding her arms across her chest. ‘<em>And</em> you’d been smoking.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I can’t be held responsible for my actions when I’ve had a few pints,’ he replied. She offered him a withering look in response, one which meant she didn’t have to tell him he needed to re-evaluate this argument. ‘No, sorry,’ he said, looking at his feet.</p><p> </p><p>‘You, err, don’t make a habit of this kind of thing do you?’ she then asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Of what? Getting drunk and trying to seduce women?’</p><p> </p><p>She watched him carefully. ‘I just meant getting drunk, but now you mention it…’</p><p> </p><p>He managed a small, croaky laugh. ‘No to both.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, that’s something at least. Do you want to use the shower while I make us some breakfast? I can <em>scourgify</em> your clothes, if you like?’</p><p> </p><p>A few moments later he stood in the shower with the warm water washing over his pale skin as he lathered Hermione’s pungently sweet shampoo into his hair. There was something oddly intimate about using someone else’s shower and he tried to forget that she often shared it with the housemate. Afterwards, he dried himself off and got redressed in his now clean clothes. There wasn’t a lot he could do about the greying stubble on his chin, or the bags under his eyes, but he looked remarkably better than he had half an hour before and so, with that, he followed the scent of frying bacon downstairs and emerged sheepishly into the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you look fresher. Sit down, have some coffee. Food’s almost ready.’</p><p> </p><p>He did as she bid and before long she was piling his plate with all the necessary components of a Full English. ‘Wow,’ he practically exclaimed, ‘are your Full Englishes as good as your Christmas Dinners?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Better,’ she said, looking pleased with herself, ‘but neither are as good as your chili.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said, tucking in. They ate in silence, for a time, both evidently ravenous, and then a memory from last night came screaming back to him. ‘That was your housemate who let me in last night?’ he asked, shovelling baked beans into his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>‘Benji, yes. I believe you’ve met before, actually.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm… I don’t think he likes me very much.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked up to see her smiling at him over the top of her coffee cup. ‘No… I don’t think you <em>have</em> made a very good impression,’ she agreed.</p><p> </p><p>He swallowed a mouthful of fried mushrooms and watched her face as he tentatively said, ‘so long as <em>we’re</em> OK?’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded. ‘We’re OK,’ she reassured him. ‘Although it wouldn’t hurt you to try and make an effort with <em>some</em> of my friends,’ she added, pointedly, clearly thinking about Potter and the Weasleys. ‘Just as I would do with your friends.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t have any friends, so it’ll never be a problem you have to deal with… you haven’t told any of your friends about me, have you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, you’re still my little secret.’</p><p> </p><p>He mulled that over, quite liking the idea of it. ‘Then it’s not something I have to deal with either,’ he replied, a little smugly. She looked at little consternated but didn’t say anything. ‘Anyway, speaking of… that kind of stuff,’ he continued, carefully, ‘those photos on the wall in your room; they’re your parents?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she replied, suddenly putting down her knife and fork and pushing her plate away from her despite it still being half-full. He frowned at her. ‘Yes,’ she then said, at length.</p><p> </p><p>‘You never really talk about them, but in the photos, you look close.’</p><p> </p><p>She chewed her bottom lip, looking thoughtful and unfathomably sad. ‘We’re still close. I see them quite regularly. There’s not really anything to tell… they were dentists, and now they’re living out their retirement years in the countryside.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s the dream,’ he said, feeling real envy. ‘Where abouts?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Somerset. Near Glastonbury.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ah, a thin place.’</p><p> </p><p>‘A what?’</p><p> </p><p>‘A thin place. It’s where the veil between our world and the faerie world is weakest. They say it’s where our magic comes from, it leaks through into the aether, but only some people, witches and wizards, can harness it. It’s just folk tales. Thin places tend to attract Squibs, they think being close to the source of the magic might trigger something in them, hence all the hocus-pocus shops in Glastonbury.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I can’t believe I’ve never heard of that,’ she replied. ‘I like the idea of it.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘Anyway, what would two respectable, retired dentists think of their brilliant daughter going out with her old teacher, the murderer?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, not this again,’ she said, in tedium. ‘If I’m happy, they’re happy.’</p><p> </p><p>He gave a derisive snort. ‘There have to be limits to that particular platitude!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Alright, what would your mum think of me?’</p><p> </p><p>He considered this at length. He remembered an Eileen who would tease him about Lily until his cheeks burned with embarrassment before she would bring him into a one-armed hug and tell him, clandestinely, whispered in his ear so the words reached only him, to treat women right, her eyes filled with unspoken horrors. <em>That</em> Eileen would have loved Hermione. But, he also remembered an Eileen that would have berated him, chastised and criticised him, would have told him he’d turned out just like his dad, worse even. <em>That</em> Eileen would have warned Hermione off, and Severus would have been inclined to agree with her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Once, she would have thought you were wonderful.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Once?’</p><p> </p><p>He turned to look at her. ‘Today is my day for visiting her,’ he said. ‘Would you like to meet her?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Gosh! That feels like a big step.’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, smiling at having made her so flustered. ‘It wouldn’t be like <em>really</em> meeting her. She’s there but… also, she’s not. Still, I’d like it… though, only if you want to, of course.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, I’d love to,’ she said, ‘it was just a surprising offer. What time, though? I need to be at the hospital this evening.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Afternoon visiting is three while six.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus Apparated them to a quiet spot a few miles away from Willow Court, the care home where Eileen had resided for the past two and a half years. It was a pleasant day and the walk would help to blow away the cobwebs. Hermione moved beside him, holding his hand, but also, the fingers of her other arm gently about his upper arm, so she was hugged into him, their bodies close. He felt solid and consistent. In his own spare hand, he carried a small bouquet of flowers they’d stopped off for at the florists in Cokeworth.</p><p> </p><p>‘What was she like… before?’ Hermione asked, her voice quiet. Severus’s expression tightened; brow furrowed and jaw set. He looked pained. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to,’ she clarified.</p><p> </p><p>‘No, it’s fine. That’s just a… complicated question,’ he said, in a strained tone. ‘She… erm… she’s lived a sad life, really. Not that I’ve appreciated that much… When I was very young she was my whole world. She was never warm, particularly, but she showed she cared in other ways. She taught me magic and foraging, things that would keep me safe from the dangers of <em>our</em> world; from poverty, discrimination… my dad.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Your dad?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… I thought Potter would have told you… he saw some of it, once, when I had the unenviable task of teaching him Occlumency.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No.’</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled deeply. ‘My dad was… extremely violent, and a drunk. He worked at the factory, like all the men in Cokeworth did back then, but he was unreliable and hot-headed so he was always getting unpaid suspensions or was the first to be laid off when they were overstaffed, and what money there was he just pissed up the wall anyway. He’d… hit my mum, but the verbal stuff was somehow worse, the belittling and undermining. He… eroded her, over the years, made her timid and paranoid to the point she barely left the house.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And where were you in all that?’ she asked, holding him just a little tighter.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘I tried to protect her but… I couldn’t. He’d hit me too. He was so much bigger, stronger…’</p><p> </p><p>‘You were a child, Severus. It wasn’t your responsibility.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Perhaps not, but it doesn’t feel like that when you’re living it,’ he said, bitterly. ‘And when I did have moments where I realised that, they only served to make me resent my mum. I’d sit in my bedroom, listening to them downstairs, thinking, “you’re a witch, for fuck’s sake, one curse and he’d be dead.” I wanted to know why she wouldn’t do more to protect me and concluded I wasn’t worth it.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione found she didn’t really know what to say; it was all so far removed from the way her own upbringing had taught her the world worked. ‘Sorry if it makes you sad to talk about,’ she said, feeling a little out of her depth.</p><p> </p><p>‘It doesn’t,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘it doesn’t make me sad to talk about it, but it makes me sad to think what could have been, if things had been different. I went to the local primary school at first, but I couldn’t control my magic. I’d have these angry outbursts and the other kids’ artwork would set on fire and stuff, so my parents pulled me out before it raised too many questions. After that, I’d just sort of… wonder around the town. I liked to watch the families, you know, the mums pushing their kids on the swings or the dads playing football with them, and try to imagine what it might be like to be a part of them. That’s how I found… well… met Lily.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You can’t live like that, always wondering “what if?”’ Hermione said.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t respond to this, but said, instead, ‘my dad died when I was eighteen, just before I sat my NEWTs, in an accident at the factory.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so sorry.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not,’ he responded, grimly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you and your mum manage to repair your relationship?’</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed bitterly. ‘There was nothing left of her to repair a relationship with. She hated the world and every one in it by the time he’d finished with her. When I’d been very little there were things I could do to make her smile; crawling into her lap while she sobbed on the floor after a beating, kissing her bruises. But he cost us all of that; by the time I was at Hogwarts, I couldn’t do anything right. Then she found out I’d taken the Mark and she was so disappointed, wanted nothing more to do with me. Said I’d turned out just like him, violent and prejudice, which was her greatest failing. His funeral was the last time I saw her until I got out of prison. I had nowhere else to go and I thought, maybe if my mum had read what had happened in The Prophet, about how I'd tried to... help, we might be able start over. So, I came to Cokeworth, only the house was empty.’</p><p> </p><p>‘She’d moved into the care home?’</p><p> </p><p>‘She’d been taken. There’s a bitter irony in the fact that she spent most of my childhood trying to prevent social services taking me away and I let them do precisely that to her.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus…’ He silenced her attempts to empathise with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘How did you find her?’ she asked instead.</p><p> </p><p>‘Natasha, next door. She’d been trying to care for her, as best she could, for years, but mum’s memory had got too bad. She was getting lost, leaving the stove on, not taking care of the house, or herself, for that matter. Natasha called the council to ask for help but as there was no family, no money, so they took matters into their own hands and put my mum in the care home. When I got back and explained who I was, Natasha told me what had happened.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione couldn’t help but be reminded of Monica and Wendell, couldn’t help but wonder if they might suffer a similar fate if Hermione ever couldn’t manage to support them.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, it sounds like maybe you couldn’t have helped her even if you were here.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘It’s just another “what if?” isn’t it. Anyway, she doesn’t seem to remember any of it now and I feel guilty for being thankful of that. We’ve had more pleasant conversations in the past eighteen months than in the previous eighteen years. Sometimes I see these small glimmers of who she used to be.’</p><p> </p><p>‘She was a Gobstones champion,’ Hermione then found herself saying.</p><p> </p><p>He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘She was, she loved Gobstones, but how do <em>you</em> know that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I saw it on a trophy at Hogwarts. It’s, err, partly how I worked out you were The Half-Blood Prince.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, screwing his eyes shut, ‘I really was an embarrassing teenager. <em>Half-Blood bloody Prince</em>! Ridiculous!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Weren’t we all! Your mum was Pureblood?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yep. She was disowned when she married my dad. She was quite alone, well, her and me. She named me after my maternal grandfather, as a sort of peace offering, I think, but it was futile. Sometimes, she would build up the courage to leave my dad; she’d pack our bags while he was at work and she’d tell me we were going to stay with the Princes – like they were some mythical entity - only when we arrived on their doorstep they’d want nothing to do with her, or me, her filthy blood-traitor son, so we’d invariably end up back at Spinner’s End. Usually before my dad had even finished his shift so he was none-the-wiser. Eventually I knew better than to believe her when she said we were leaving. I became kind of… obsessed with the Princes though, hence the stupid nickname, but, more than that, too. It was part of why The Dark Arts were so attractive to me. I wanted to emulate them because I wanted them to accept me. Always this fruitless fucking need for belonging.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think we all experience that in one way or another,’ she tried to reassure him. ‘And, hey,’ she tugged his arm gently, so he would look at her, ‘we all find belonging in different ways, too,’ she added, reaching up and placing a kiss on his lips, telling him he belonged, in some ways at least, to her. He didn’t kiss her back, as such, but he closed his eyes and seemed to contemplate her words, a sad little smile on his lips as she pulled away.</p><p> </p><p>She watched him for a moment as they continued down the street, and then averted her gaze, feeling shameful hypocrisy rise within her; it was not lost on Hermione how deeply unfair it was that he was sharing these things with her when she had lied about her own parents who were in such a similar situation.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They had been walking through a nice neighbourhood for a short while when Severus halted on the pavement before a large, red-brick Victorian house with a willow tree dominating the front lawn. A sign attached the gatepost read: Willow Court: A perfect home away from home. He let go of her hand as they turned up the gravel driveway and entered the building through oaken double doors.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello,’ a friendly looking, middle-aged woman in a pale blue uniform said from behind a desk just inside. ‘Eileen’s having a good day today, Mr. Snape,’ she added, ‘she’s telling stories about the school in the castle again, but she’s quite lucid. She’s in the conservatory.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks,’ Severus mumbled. Hermione followed him down a winding corridor. The place had a rather distinctive odour, like bleach masking something more sinister, and everything was coloured in dusky shades that made it seem clinical and unhomely. They passed rooms filled with elderly residents, dancing to wartime songs or watching televisions turned up excessively loud.</p><p> </p><p>‘There she is,’ Severus said, as they eventually emerged into a conservatory on the back of the building that looked out over long garden. He had nodded his head in the direction of a small figure sat in a high-backed chair upholstered in easy-clean mint green vinyl. She looked wizened and frail, hunched over almost painfully, with thin wisps of short, dark grey hair. As they got nearer she looked up at them, although she didn’t initially seem to really see them. Her dark eyes were watery and her nose hooked; there was still something about her which recalled the photograph Hermione had seen of her when she was young, but she was quite changed.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’ve gotten fat,’ Eileen said to Severus, before he and Hermione had even sat down. ‘I always told you all those sweets and crisps would catch with up you someday!’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione glanced at Severus, unsure how he would possibly react to that, only to find him chuckling softly. ‘That’s right, mum, you did,’ he said, reaching out and squeezing one of Eileen’s gnarled hands. ‘Mum, this is my friend, Hermione,’ he added.</p><p> </p><p>‘Pretty girl,’ Eileen said, casting her dark eyes over Hermione.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello, Eileen,’ Hermione replied.</p><p> </p><p>They spent over an hour, chatting about tangible things that wouldn’t confuse Eileen, letting her pick the trajectory of the conversation, and helping her find words she couldn’t recall. Severus was surprisingly patient with her. She told them about the school in the castle, how she used to wait for her boy to come home, and how one day, he never did.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘She <em>was</em> having a good day, even if she was insulting,’ Severus said, as he and Hermione made their way back down the gravel drive at the end of visiting hours. ‘Often she doesn’t even remember who I am at all.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione wanted to hold his hand, to reassure him, tell him she knows exactly how he feels, but his hands were tucked deep into his jacket pockets as usual and she knows cowardice will still stop her telling him about Monica and Wendell yet.</p><p> </p><p>As they reached the end of the drive he stopped abruptly and turned to her but wouldn’t look at her. ‘I, erm… back there, I introduced you as my… <em>friend</em>,’ he paused, chewing his lip and finally meeting her eye. ‘That was only to not confuse her.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s something else you wish you could have introduced me as?’ she enquired, a mischievous look on her face as she took both of his hands in hers finally, bringing their palms together and intertwining their fingers. She pressed into him, rocking gently on the balls of her feet.</p><p> </p><p>He looked at their hands for a moment, flexing his long fingers and then gripping her firmly again. ‘Perhaps.’</p><p> </p><p>She stood on her tiptoes and drew him into a kiss that tasted of the cheap coffee and long-life milk they’d drunk in the care home. ‘Thank you for bringing me here today, for sharing this with me,’ she said as they pulled apart.</p><p> </p><p>He looked down at her. ‘Thank you for coming with me. She liked you, and she doesn’t like <em>anyone</em>, so that’s saying a lot.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I liked <em>her</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Again, a rare sentiment,’ he huffed.</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head then, ‘I should be getting to the hospital,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘I’ll see you tonight?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You will.’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded and made to move away from him, only to stop a moment later and turn back. ‘Oh,’ she said, and he turned back to her also, questioning eyebrow raised. ‘Just so you know, and for what it’s worth, I quite like your little belly,’ she said, smirking and poking him gently near his naval.</p><p> </p><p>His lip curled into a smirk and he sucked his stomach in a little bit. ‘Good, because I still like sweets and crisps.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And beer,’ she added, rolling her eyes and stealing another kiss. ‘See you later.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Traditions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They lay beside one another, on their backs in the dim light, catching their breaths in blissful exhaustion. It had not taken anything extraordinary, in the end, to get them here. They had been out on one of their walks when, quite unexpectedly, April had opened its skies on them; Severus had held his thin jacket over their heads, a futile endeavour given the deluge, as they huddled beneath and hurried for Spinner’s End. Their soaked clothes had stuck to their bodies and she had shivered against him as they stood just beyond the door. He had held her close, running his hands over the goosebumps on her arms, then he’d whispered in her ear, some cliché about knowing the best way to warm her up that had made her giggle and blush. He’d led her upstairs, back into the front bedroom, where everything looked the same as before. But there was something different about him, this time, some conviction or fortitude and she knew he wouldn’t stop this time.</p><p> </p><p>He’d pulled his own clothes off, save his grey and blue chequered boxers, rather unceremoniously, throwing them in a pile on the floor, before hastily turning his attentions back to her. He’d peeled her sundress off her over her head and lifted her onto the bed, trailing kisses down her chest and stomach, stopping at the waistband of her knickers. There he had met her eager gaze and hooked his fingers around the elastic, pulling them down her legs. His enthusiasm had given her a new confidence too, her hands roaming over his warm skin, kissing him with renewed passion, biting his bottom lip.</p><p> </p><p>They had done it once, and then again, before he had had groaned with satisfaction and rolled off her. Now he had one hand on his heaving chest, the other by his side, not so very far from hers, and his little finger alone stole across the space between them and caressed her upturned palm. She curled her fingers around it and held him like that for a moment as they both came back to their senses.</p><p> </p><p>A contentment had overcome him in the days since they had been to see Eileen, like the relief of trusting her with something so personal to him, opening himself up that little bit further, had made him lighter, had drawn them closer.</p><p> </p><p>She felt him shift next to her and opened her eyes as he pulled the duvet, which had fallen to the floor, back up over them. They turned onto their sides, facing one another, their foreheads pressed together, and his hand immediately in her hair as they looked into one another’s eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘That was incredible,’ she whispered.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he agreed, murmured through a wolfish grin. ‘We should do it again some time,’ he added, closing his eyes, tiredly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Now?’</p><p> </p><p>He heaved a dry laugh. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’</p><p> </p><p>Instead, they’d fallen asleep, wrapped in one another’s arms. It was early evening when they awoke, prying apart with reluctance and feeling that pleasant wooziness that comes with having long naps during the day. They’d taken turns to shower and he’d thrown on his jogging bottoms and a black t-shirt whilst she’d charmed her dress dry, trying to iron out the creases by brushing at it with the palms of her hands. Then they’d ordered pizzas, which they were eating ravenously in the living room, Severus cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace and her in her usual spot on the green velvet settee.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione finished half her pizza and then sat back with a satisfied sigh. ‘I feel so… content,’ she said, smilingly, ‘I wish I didn’t have work in the morning.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Call in sick,’ he shrugged, simply. He finished off the slice of pizza he was eating, save the crust, which he threw back in the box before closing the lid. With an aching groan, he got to his feet and then dropped onto the settee beside her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Have you ever done that?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He looked thoughtful, tilting his head from side to side. ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Though I often wanted to.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not even when you were doing your Potions Apprenticeship?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Definitely not. The Master I learned from was terrifying.’</p><p> </p><p>‘God, he must have been bad, if <em>you</em> thought that!’ she giggled. ‘And not when you were teaching?’</p><p> </p><p>‘There was no point, the work would only still be there when I got back.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t you miss it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Teaching? No.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, I mean, the purpose, the busyness? I’m not criticising you,’ she quickly added, seeing him frown at her, ‘but every time I ask what you’ve been up to you say, “not much,” or some such like, and gesture vaguely at that armchair to suggest she haven’t really moved from it all day.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry, that was you <em>not</em> criticising?’ he asked, but he was grinning at her teasingly. ‘Then I hate to see you when you <em>are</em> criticising.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Stop,’ she said, swatting his arm, ‘you know what I mean. Brilliantly minded people are not usually content with sitting idle.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I did more work between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-eight than most people do in a lifetime. Now, I am enjoying an early retirement.’</p><p> </p><p>‘A well-earned one.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’d say.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t have to answer this, I’m just being nosy, really, but… where does your money come from?’</p><p> </p><p>‘The answer’s boring. I have some savings from when I was teaching and some compensation left from when my dad died. I always imagined I’d sell this dump of a house one day and go and live in a shack in the middle of nowhere, forage for my food, and live in happy isolation. I’m not rich, just to clarify, in case that’s why you’re hanging around!’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, shifting closer to him, ‘I hang around for your potions expertise, remember?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh yeah,’ he said, as if suddenly remembering, and then they were kissing again.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus halted beside a style, leaning against a fencepost to catch his breath. Hermione had walked a few steps further up the path before realising he wasn’t beside her anymore. She turned to face him with a worried frown and then closed the distance between them again.</p><p> </p><p>‘You OK?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine,’ he wheezed.</p><p> </p><p>It was two weeks since that day in early April when it rained; two weeks which had been filled with carnal intimacy. She would rush to Spinner’s End after work to find him waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her; their gazes would meet fleetingly and then he’d be on his feet with his mouth pressed to hers in mad passion; they would wake together in the cool morning air and make love as the rising sun illuminated the room; they were exploratory, divulging their preferences, learning <em>these</em> things about each other with an almost fervent fastidiousness.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione might have been happy to never leave the bed again, but today Severus had insisted they get out to the countryside; he said that Cokeworth was oppressive and claustrophobic at the best of times, but to know that Spring was properly underway in the green expanse of rugged hills of the nearby Peak District, was most depressing. So, they had packed a picnic, dressed in their most practical attire, and Apparated to a small cave just outside the village of Castleton. It had rained in the night but was warm now, and the air smelled earthy and fresh. Severus had seemed instantly more relaxed and whether it was the lack of proximity to Cokeworth, the natural therapeutic qualities of the countryside, or minimised risk of being seen by someone they knew, that did it, the results were certainly pleasing. He seemed more at ease, laughing and joking with a touch more abandon. And he was being more affectionate. Not in any grand ways, but certainly in the way he held her hand as she clambered over styles, slowed his long stride to wait for her, or the way he showed her the safest way to pass over particularly treacherous parts of the path.</p><p> </p><p>They were currently making their way along the Great Ridge between Back Tor and Mam Tor, heading West towards the summit of the latter. The path was paved, and the incline relatively steady, but they’d been walking for a little while now and were probably due a break.</p><p> </p><p>‘Let’s stop for lunch,’ she suggested.</p><p> </p><p>‘We’re nearly at the top,’ he said, ‘just give me a sec.’ He coughed a few times, harsh, wracking coughs that sounded horribly phlegmy. She swallowed some bitter remark about his continued smoking; though he pretended he’s quit, she’d caught him a few times, either in the act or covered in the tell-tale odour. The Healer in her knew she ought to be asking more questions about his health, but their agreement to tell one another things when, and only when, they were ready, held her back. He breathed deeply a few more times as he recovered. ‘Right,’ he then said, ‘last push.’</p><p> </p><p>He took her hand and they set off again, a little slower, taking in the vista on their left; the steep drop of the terrain that plummeted through farmland, roaming flocks of sheep in fields dividing by dry stone walls, the castle, sat nestled near the bottom of the valley, cars creeping up Winnats Pass like ants, the cement factory at the foot of the far hills, oddly incongruent against its picturesque surroundings.</p><p> </p><p>As they reached the top of Mam Tor they both tapped the trig point, then sat on the grass overlooking the length of the valley and started on their food. Hermione had dragged Severus to Marks and Spencers* before they’d set off, telling him if he was forcing her to walk up hills all day, the least he could do was make sure she was well fed. He had grumbled at the prices of their pre-packed sandwiches but perked up when he saw they had more exciting offerings than the ham, cheese, and pickle he was used to from the corner shop.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s always reminded me a little of the hills around Hogwarts up here,’ he said, once they’d both eaten enough to take the edge of their hunger.</p><p> </p><p>‘I can see that,’ she said, ‘did you get to spend much time in the hills up there?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… not as often as I would have liked. I’ve always liked walking, ever since I was young.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I prefer a good book, a blanket, and the settee,’ she said, smiling over at him, ‘but I can appreciate this.’ He nodded and they fell into a pleasant silence as she finished her sandwich and he poured himself another cup of coffee from the flask she’d prepared. ‘You don’t talk about it much. Hogwarts, I mean,’ Hermione continued, after a time.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘There’s not much to say.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You spent the best part of your life there.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not the <em>best</em> part,’ he said, quickly, looking at her purposely whilst wearing his wonky smile.</p><p> </p><p>‘OK,’ she said, grinning into her own coffee cup, ‘but a lot of your time.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, and I just feel resentful about the whole thing, so I try not to dwell.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Fair enough… I ended up feeling that way about it too, in the end.’ She paused, shifting her position so her aching legs were stretched out in front of her. ‘It’ll be the anniversary soon.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know,’ he replied, his hand moving subconsciously to the scars at his neck. She’d learned that he didn’t like anyone looking at them, let alone touching them. ‘Is it difficult for you?’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded, looking out at a paraglider that seemed to hang motionless in air above the hill.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he said, understanding her without the need for words. ‘Do you want to do something that day? We could just… get away, or… something to memorialise those that died, I don’t know… whatever you want.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I can’t,’ she replied, ‘I mean, I’d love to,’ she added, in response to his slightly crestfallen expression, ‘but, I can’t. Harry, Ron and I always spend the anniversary together, ever since the first one. It just seemed… right.’</p><p> </p><p>‘OK,’ he said, with a half-shrug, looking away from her and out over the view. ‘You should do that, then.’</p><p> </p><p>It was difficult to discern from that if he really was all right with it. His expression, or what she could make of it from his profile, was impassive, and his tone had remained even. She wasn’t sure it would have mattered anyway, it felt non-negotiable, even if she hadn’t realised it before this moment.</p><p> </p><p>‘Shall we go see the castle?’ she asked, after a moment, testing the waters.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he replied, quite amiably, standing and helping her to her feet too.</p><p> </p><p>They had spent the rest of that day quite pleasantly, wandering through the ruins of the little castle and even having a drink in a pub before heading back to Cokeworth. Indeed, the next couple of weeks passed in much the same way as those prior to their trip to Castleton, with them wrapped in one another’s arm, naked in bed. But if Hermione had inconclusively wondered, in that first instance, if Severus minded her spending the day of the anniversary with Harry and Ron, her suspicions would be confirmed on the eve of it.</p><p> </p><p>‘So, err, it’s an all-day thing tomorrow, is it?’ he asked over a meal of bangers and mash he’d prepared.</p><p> </p><p>‘Probably till late.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And what do you do that lasts all day?’</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him tiredly. ‘We just be together.’</p><p> </p><p>He’d left it at that for a time, and the conversation had moved to other things, but later in the evening, as they’d moved into the living room, Severus notably sitting in the armchair rather than beside on the settee, he seemed unable to help himself.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where do you go?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Severus!’ she said, with an irritated groan. ‘Hogsmeade, the edge of The Forbidden Forest… near the lake and castle grounds, just walk around… is it a problem?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That seems counterintuitive,’ he said, ignoring her question.</p><p> </p><p>‘What does?’</p><p> </p><p>‘To go back to where it happened when you find it so difficult. I only say that because I went back to The Shrieking Shack once, probably around the time of the second anniversary, and very much regretted it. But, you should do whatever you want.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s like I said,’ she replied, ‘it just <em>feels</em> right. I can’t really explain it. We made a promise, Harry, Ron and I, in the first year after the war, that we’d always spend the anniversaries together, just the three of us, no matter what.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t need to justify yourself to me. I said you should go.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But you said it in a way that suggests you’re not very happy about it, which is tantamount to asking me not to go.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It just doesn’t make much sense to me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, it’s not for <em>you</em> to understand, is it?’ she said, her patience thin. ‘Is it because I’m spending it with Harry and Ron or just the fact that I’m <em>not</em> spending it with you?’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her sharply. ‘Neither,’ he snapped, in a way which betrayed the fact that she was likely, to some extent at least, correct on both counts.</p><p> </p><p>‘Look, I’m sorry you’ll be on your own. This is just something I have to do… Why don’t you go see your mum? Or go foraging? A walk maybe? Something you enjoy that’ll take your mind off things?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t patronise me!’ he huffed. ‘I’ll be fine by myself.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine,’ she said, shaking her head.</p><p> </p><p>They glared at one another for a long moment then, suddenly, his mobile phone started buzzing, vibrating loudly against a hard surface and startling them both out of their standoff. He cast about for it, but it was closer to Hermione, on top of the cabinet next to the velvet settee. She picked it up and handed it to him, glancing first to see who would be calling him following his protestations that no one need have his number but her. The bottom fell out of her stomach when she saw the name “Natasha No.9” flash up on the screen. She frowned at him and practically threw it into his hand.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello,’ he grumbled into the phone, answering it whilst still glaring at Hermione. ‘Yeah… I can’t right now… let me see, hang on… when are you next working, at the shop or the hospital?’ he then asked, and it took Hermione a second to realise he was addressing her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Day after tomorrow, I’m on the evening shift,’ she said, dully.</p><p> </p><p>‘Day after tomorrow, about seven?’ he asked, back into the phone.</p><p> </p><p>Whilst Hermione knew it was unlikely that Severus would arrange to meet another woman for what she could only assume was sex, quite so blatantly as this, in her current state of anger she was willing to allow herself this moment of irrationality.</p><p> </p><p>‘… right, bye…’ Severus concluded his conversation, jabbing the “end call” button before turning his challenging gaze back on to Hermione, daring her to ask the question they both knew was perched on the tip of her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why does <em>she</em> have your number?’ Hermione asked. She had not wanted to dignify his behaviour with a response, but here she was, sounding like those bitter women on the tacky TV shows who harangued their partners for proof of their fidelity, their own self-worth depending on it; the kind of woman Hermione had never had much time for. She would try to be more empathetic in future, she thought, as her heart began to ache.</p><p> </p><p>Severus issued her a satisfied smirk and dropped into the armchair. ‘I gave it to her,’ he said, with feigned nonchalance.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, right. Well, don’t let me stop you if you’d rather be next door with her.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Is this… envy?’ he asked, that infuriating smirk still dancing about his lips. She got the sense he was enjoying this. ‘Do you think I’m cheating?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s what you want me to believe.’</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed. ‘As if I’d want two of you pecking at my head all day. Although, it is quite flattering that you think I’d have the energy,’ he said, mockingly, which made a hot anger rise inside her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, shut up!’ she snapped, ‘you’re being vile! I’m going home!’</p><p> </p><p>She got up and moved quickly from the living room into the hallway, but he was right on her heals, snatching her coat off the bannister before could have chance to put it on.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just, hang on,’ he commanded, but there was something a little regretful, pleading perhaps, in his expression now. ‘You know I’d never?’ he beseeched.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know anything,’ she replied, sitting at the bottom of the stairs and starting to pull on her trainers instead. ‘I see you with her, laughing and joking and smoking – I bet she doesn’t nag you about that filthy habit, does she? – and I see you being all… all fatherly with her kids. She invites you round for clandestine get togethers while I’m at work, now she’s ringing you and probably texting you whenever she likes, and you have half a box of condoms in your bedside table. So, no, Severus, I don’t know that you’d never!’ She stood up again swiftly, glaring daringly right into his eyes, looking much braver than she felt.</p><p> </p><p>He handed her coat to her, silently, but didn’t release it immediately when she tried to take it. ‘I thought you would have just <em>known</em> that I would never,’ he said, slowly, watching her carefully. He let go of the coat and she pulled it around her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>‘Bye, Severus,’ she said, sadly, turning and walking through the door.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Her phone pinged as she rounded the corner at the end of Spinner’s End and Severus’s name flashed up.</p><p> </p><p><em>Please can I see you tomorrow? </em>The text read.</p><p> </p><p>She began typing some lengthy reply, extolling the importance of her friends, independence and agency, but the fresh air and her brisk pace calmed her nerves a little as she moved through the grey streets, and she soon deleted it. It could wait for another time.</p><p> </p><p><em>No</em>, she finally typed instead, <em>I’m spending tomorrow with Harry and Ron</em>. She had been going to add that she was “sorry” but quickly realised she had nothing to apologise for.</p><p> </p><p><em>Just let me know you got home safe</em>, came the reply.</p><p> </p><p><em>Home</em>, she texted back, a short while later, locking the front door behind her and heading to her room with a weary mind.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione arose early the next day, reaching for her phone in the still darkness to see no further correspondence from Severus. She wondered whether she ought to message him, but, as was always the case, a great saddening had befallen her this morning, the anniversary of The Final Battle, and she couldn’t quite muster the energy to stave off that whilst arguing further with him. Instead, she rose with a tired groan and got ready to meet Harry and Ron.</p><p> </p><p>When it wasn’t transporting school children to and from Hogwarts, The Hogwarts Express made stops at various wizarding train platforms up and down the country, carrying wizards and witches who preferred a more sedate and scenic method of transportation than Apparation. Manchester Piccadilly station, platform fifteen, provided one such stop, and it was here where Hermione** would catch it today. Although Apparation wasn’t her favourite mode of transportation even at the best of time, on this day, especially, she found that travelling by train enveloped her in that same comforting nostalgia she had found strength in on her final journey to Hogwarts eight years ago. She’d brought a sugar quill for the journey, and <em>I Capture the Castle</em>, and by the time she reached Hogsmeade she would feel armored and prepared.</p><p> </p><p>Seeing Harry and Ron, as she stepped out onto the platform at the village station, helped too. It <em>was</em> right that they should be together, just the three of them, today. She knew what others had experienced the night of The Final Battle had been terrible too, but no one could deny that Harry, Ron, and she had been through something quite unique. It had been the three of them then, and it should be the three of them now.</p><p> </p><p>They greeted one another and set off, walking aimlessly, feeling listless, through the cobbled streets. They would not say much to one another, they would just find comfort in being together. It would be enough, until next year.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus awoke late, nursing a horrific throbbing in his temple. After Hermione had left last night, he had drowned his sorrows in half a bottle of Glenfiddich, full of self-pity and cursing his own mulishness. He didn’t have a hangover potion so downed two paracetamols with a strong black coffee and determined to sulk in his armchair for the rest of the day, the living room curtains drawn to keep the room in a dim light that wouldn’t offend his headache.</p><p> </p><p>He must have fallen back to sleep and when he awoke again it was with that sense that he had dreamed something he couldn’t remember; flashes of hazy scenes came to him with no narrative or real definition - <em>darkness… burning… gasping… blood and pain</em> - disappearing again before he had chance to make sense of them. He was, however, left with a profound, but familiar, sense of loneliness.</p><p> </p><p>He had tried to be understanding of Hermione’s need to be with Potter and Weasley, if that’s what she felt she must do, but he had silently seethed since the summit of Mam Tor and over the subsequent weeks this had only served to slowly poison his temperament. There was no real reason for him to want her there with him today. Since leaving Hogwarts, he had spent every anniversary of The Final Battle alone and this had suited him just fine. A number of them had passed without event, without him even noticing, and weeks later he would realise, oh yes, another year has passed. He hadn’t seen the death and destruction of that night, so perhaps it meant something different to him.</p><p> </p><p>No, there was no real reason for him to want her there with him today, no reason other than that he was, as he had warned her, selfish and spiteful, and simply thought that she ought to be.</p><p> </p><p>His stomach rumbled, disturbing his misanthropy, and he shuffled into the kitchen and pulled a Pot Noodle out. His mobile phone was on the countertop beside the kettle, the screen cracked and the battery hanging out of the back after he’d thrown it at the wall as soon as he knew Hermione was home safe.</p><p> </p><p>While he waited for the kettle to boil the letter from Minerva, still discarded where he’d left it, on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard that had its door missing, caught his eye. The kettle clicked off and he filled his Pot Noodle, sitting at the table and jabbing at it with a fork. Suddenly, it was like the letter was calling to him. It had sat on that shelf all those weeks since it had arrived and he hadn’t given it a second thought, but suddenly it consumed him. He turned in his seat to glare at it; it persisted regardless, thrumming almost, to get his attention. As he slurped the dregs out of the bottom of the plastic pot, he finally relented. He took the letter down from the shelf and ripped it open, thinking if he just got on with it then it would be done.</p><p> </p><p>He read it through, and then read it again. He had told Hermione that there were <em>people</em> he missed in the wizarding world; Minerva was certainly one of them and he felt it almost achingly as he read her words to him. They were filled with the same maternal warmth and concern she had always shown him since they became colleagues, as well as a stubborn determination to keep writing to him, to let him know there were people who cared, until he told her to stop. He suspected it was for this reason that he had kept every letter she had ever sent; even if he hadn’t intended to ever read them, just to receive them, to know someone, somewhere, was thinking of him, was enough.</p><p> </p><p>He stood and moved to the cupboard under the stairs where he kept the bundle of letters he had received from Minerva over the years, ever since he had first gone to Azkaban. He found them, bound in twine, beneath a pair of old boots and a rusty mop and bucket. Once extricated he took them to the kitchen, undid the bow, and sat and stared at them, motionless, for a good long while, daring himself to open the first envelope. With a steadying inhalation, he picked up the one on top; they had not been kept in any particular order, and suddenly he found himself devouring them with little regard for chronology:</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Dear Severus… I hope this letter finds you well… we have been so worried since we heard nothing from you… Warmest regards, Minerva... I continue to write to you, undeterred by your silence… we only hope you are safe and well… P.S. Poppy and the others send their love… so terribly sorry about your sentence… Dearest Severus… Poppy asks if you’re taking your potions and wanted me to remind you how important they are… Happy Birthday, Severus… you will have been released now and I would love to meet with you… How are you, Severus?... apologies if my incessant epistles are a bother to you, but you must know it is only because I care… you have many allies here at Hogwarts… if there is ever, anything you need, you must call upon us… Your friend, Minerva…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>His gaze lingered on the word “friend” and it suddenly made perhaps a little more sense to him why Hermione had needed to be with Potter and Weasley today.</p><p> </p><p>He found a biro and a battered old pad of paper.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Minerva,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Stop, just stop…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He paused, then scribbled out what he’d written so ferociously that the nib of the pen tore the paper. He screwed the whole thing up, put it in the bin then went back to the living room and did as he had always intended to do today, sulked in his armchair.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘You expecting a call?’ Harry asked, gesturing at Hermione’s phone, which was in her hand again. ‘You’ve been checking that thing all day.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she said, stuffing it hastily into her pocket. ‘No. Sorry.’</p><p> </p><p>They had wandered up the path to The Shrieking Shack quite unthinkingly, but when confronted with it Hermione had, inevitably, been reminded of Severus and had subconsciously checked her phone again, as she had, she was sure Harry was right, been doing all day. She had not received any messages from him; she remained angry with him but a part of her couldn’t help but be worried.</p><p> </p><p>‘Doesn’t get any easier does it,’ Ron said, grimacing up at the dilapidated structure.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ Harry agreed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not easier, just different,’ Hermione added, thinking bitterly how, with the passage of time, layers of grief seemed to pile on top of one another. ‘Come on.’ She urged them back towards the village, needing to put some distance between herself and The Shrieking Shack.</p><p> </p><p>It was a mild day and a weak sun hung low in the blue veil of sky, casting Hogsmeade and the surrounding hills in a pinkish haze. As they made their way back towards the village they met with the river and followed its meanderings, rather than the track, moving slowly, flowing with the gentle water. Ahead the path opened to a clearing, the ground dressed in crocus, like purple ribbons amongst the grass. There, a dark figure stood hunched, though it straightened as they approached, before turning, wand raised.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ the figure says, with recognition, lowering the wand. ‘Hello you three.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Professor McGonagall,’ Harry greets her warmly. ‘How are you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m well, Mr. Potter, all things considered. And you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Same. We, err, like to come here together… today.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I understand,’ she said, with a nod. ‘I like the view of the castle from here,’ she added, turning to show them the way it seemed to have grown out of the rocky ground beneath it, just visible through the trees across the river, high up on the hill. ‘I always feel particularly contemplative today and the perspective this spot offers tends to set me straight. I’m also picking flowers for my office, to cheer the place up a bit,’ she added, holding out the handful of crocus she’d been picking when they arrived.</p><p> </p><p>‘We were just saying,’ Hermione replied, ‘how it doesn’t ever seem to get any easier.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… More than anything, I worry about people forgetting. Not us, who were there, but in the future. You know, there are no children left at the school now who remember that night, or any of the war. The first years, just babies really, who <em>were</em> there, left Hogwarts last year.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s already been written about in the history books,’ Hermione offered.</p><p> </p><p>‘History books are all facts, dates, lists of events… lists of the dead. People won’t remember how it <em>felt</em>, or what it <em>cost</em>.’ She glanced at Ron, perhaps thinking Fred, then off towards the castle again, perhaps thinking of those who had survived and the sacrifices they had made. Perhaps thinking of Severus.</p><p> </p><p>‘But they’ll know what difference it made,’ Harry said, solemnly. ‘They’ll know they live in a better world because of what we did.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s true,’ McGonagall conceded, ‘although, it would be nice, I sometimes think, if we built some tradition around it. Something with… heart. Traditions are, are they not, passed from generation to generation. The school seems the most obvious place to do that but whenever I consider it, it feels too overwhelming, or like nothing I can imagine could do justice to what I want to achieve from it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, that’s a heavy burden on your own, Professor,’ Harry said, knowing all about heavy burdens.</p><p> </p><p>‘But perhaps if you had some help,’ Hermione added, smilingly. ‘We could start right away, it would be nice to feel productive.’ Hermione didn’t say as much, but she also hoped this would stop her from wanting to keep checking her phone.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Ron agreed, ‘perhaps in the pub, though?’</p><p> </p><p>They made their way to The Three Broomsticks where they began making plans for some form of memorial event. They had many ideas, but came to no conclusion save that the tenth anniversary, two years from now, seemed like the most fitting time to introduce something.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Sitting on the train on the way back to Manchester, Hermione drew out her phone again. Still nothing from Severus. She opened a new message. <em>You OK?</em> she typed.</p><p> </p><p>In the five hours it took to get back to Cokeworth, there was no response.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* There is a strict hierarchy of supermarkets in the UK and it doesn’t get much better than Marks and Spencers!</p><p>** These lines are literally copy and pasted from one of my other stories The Romanian Puzzle Box. There’s no need to re-invent the wheel sometimes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. July</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione goes to her shift at St. Valentine’s, the evening after the anniversary, having still not heard anything from Severus. She had texted him one more time that morning, even tried calling, but his phone was switched off; as sure a sign as any that he wanted to be left alone, she could only presume. As she shrugged on her white trainee-Healer robes, a bright blue around the collar where the qualified Healers’ were lime green, she couldn’t help but think he was probably at Natasha’s right now, probably in bed with her, doing that thing with his hand that sends shivers down Hermione’s spine. The thought of it made her slightly nauseous and so she endeavoured to push it from her mind as she moved out onto the Poisons, Toxins, and Venoms Ward where she had been stationed for the past few weeks.</p><p> </p><p>As she made her way down the dimly lit corridor, she saw more white-robed figures up ahead, hurrying from the Healers’ station onto the ward, towards the muffled sound of a man screaming in agony. Hermione quickened her pace, and was soon a part of the commotion herself. The screaming man was laying on a bed, writhing, his face puce and dripping with a cold sweat, his fists clenched around the bedsheets as he groans, eyes bulging.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mr. Culpepper,’ Healer Tomkins, the Master Healer to whom Hermione had been assigned to shadow, was explaining to the group of Healers who worked deftly around their patient as he spoke, ‘sixty-year-old male bitten on the left forearm by a streeler while harvesting asphodel.’ Hermione’s gaze drifted to Culpepper’s arm where a deep, festering wound had opened, exposing a layer of fat, muscle tissue, and bone as though the skin and flesh had simply melted away. Tomkins observed it with a deep frown. ‘Healer Edevane, set up an intravenous calming draught, if you will. Healer O’Sullivan, fetch dittany. Trainee Granger, cleanse the wound and apply murtlap essence to sooth Mr. Culpepper’s pain. Wear gloves, you don’t want to get any residual venom on you. I will send for the man’s wife and daughter… he may not have long.’</p><p> </p><p>As the Healers did as Tomkins had ordered them, Mr. Culpepper began to calm, his body relaxed against the damp sheets, and his screams reduced to pained groans. Before long, Edevane and O’Sullivan had completed their succouring and, with solemn last looks at their patient, had retreated to the Healers’ station again, leaving Hermione alone with him. He dazed fitfully as she applied the murtlap, wincing when she ran her fingers nimbly over the raw flesh. Once she was done, and he seemed somewhat comfortable, she turned to leave him alone for a while.</p><p> </p><p>‘Wait,’ Culpepper said, grabbing her hand, ‘tell me, how does this end?’</p><p> </p><p>She glanced down at the wound, took in the deep purple paths that the venom had tracked up his arm, up his neck. She knew what it would be doing to his insides, his organs would be slowly withering. He might live out the hour, might make it through the night, but whatever time he had left would be spent in torment. She sat down on the visitors’ chair, taking his hand gently in both of hers. She was reminded of another bed she had once sat beside; another hand she had once held. When she spoke, despite her best efforts, her voice shook. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Culpepper. There isn’t anything else we can do for you, except make you comfortable.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Stay with me,’ he pleaded with her, eyes wide with terror.</p><p> </p><p>‘I will,’ she assured him, ‘until your wife arrives.’</p><p> </p><p>And she did, sat beside his bed, talking and talking about nothing much at all, holding his hand and watching as the venom eked the life from him. Eventually, his wife took over and Hermione was able to steel away to compose herself in the large cupboard where the patient records were kept. Mr. Culpepper’s was not the first hand she had held as he died, and it would not be the last.</p><p>Even as she had been telling him that there was nothing more they could do, she realised how many times she had said those same words, to such numerous patients as she had seen come through the Poisons, Toxins, and Venoms Ward; it got no easier and, always, she was reminded how it could so easily have been Severus. Still could be, even, if her suspicions were correct.</p><p> </p><p>At the end of Hermione’s shift, as she made her way back down the corridor, just as the dawn light began to illuminate the ward, Mrs. Culpepper’s howls announced her husband’s passing. Hermione glanced back once to see a matronly woman sink to the floor before the Healer’s station, her daughter rushing to her side and urging her back to her feet, but it was too painful to watch and Hermione was glad to close the door of the changing room behind her and divest herself of her Healer robes.</p><p> </p><p>After changing into her daywear, she pulled out her phone to see seventeen missed calls and five text messages from Monica, all imploring her to hurry to Withy Copse Farm, Wendell had had one of his turns. In her panic, it only vaguely registered that there was still nothing from Severus.</p><p> </p><p>‘Good work today, Granger,’ Healer Tomkins said, coming into the changing room.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ Hermione said, gathering her belongings as quickly as she could, but halting suddenly before actually leaving. ‘Healer Tomkins?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Granger?’</p><p> </p><p>She paused, wondering whether she really wanted to know the answer to the question she was about to ask. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself. ‘Healer Tomkins, in the forty years you’ve worked on this ward, how many people have you seen walk out of here alive, with no need for any after care?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Patients with anything worse than an Acromantula bite?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘None,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Thank you,’ she said, pulling open the door, ‘that’s all I needed to know. See you tomorrow.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Halfway up the winding track to Withy Copse Farm, Crookshanks sat watchfully in the dawn light. Hermione liked to believe he knew she was coming, and as she trudged towards the house he stepped in line with her. Up at the farm, all was quiet. Hermione let herself in, kicking aside a pile of unopened mail that lay on the mat just inside the door. The place looked even more cluttered and begrimed than usual; piles of unread newspapers, bin liners full of old clothes, discarded food packaging, and boxes of Christmas decorations crept up the walls, shaping narrow paths down the hallway in front of her. Crookshanks looked at her beckoningly from atop a long sideboard, its cupboards bulging with whatever contents had been crammed inside. She followed the half-kneazle through the chaos and into the kitchen, where he stopped before the log burner, purring loudly.</p><p> </p><p>‘What is it Crooks?’</p><p> </p><p>Instinctively, she knelt beside the log burner and pulled open its door, the iron hinge groaning loudly in the early morning silence. Hermione gasped as she realised what was inside. ‘No!’ she exclaimed, though it came out as little more than a pained exhalation. She reached into the pile of grey ash that lay at the bottom of the log burner and pulled out the singed remnants of a photograph. Though the edges were charred, Hermione recognised the three people it depicted; both of her parents and her, aged about seven, posing in front of The Eiffel Tower. Beginning to panic, she retrieved the fire shovel, scooped the ash out of the log burner directly on the large flagstones that paved the kitchen floor, and sieved through them with blackened fingers. She found the corner of another photograph, though it was impossible to tell what it had been of, another singed piece that looked to have been an old school photograph from when Hermione had attended the local primary, and another so melted that the faces of whoever it had once been of appeared warped and blistered.</p><p> </p><p>She turned to find a box, with “photos” written in black marker on the side, stood on the kitchen table and, looking inside, she found all their old family albums, from which every single photograph had been ripped out and apparently burned. A lifetime of memories quite literally gone up in smoke.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes stung and an immense fury broiled within her. Before she quite knew what she was doing she was on her feet and up the stairs to Monica and Wendell’s bedroom, bursting through the door.</p><p> </p><p>‘What have you done?’ she practically shrieked, tears now streaming down her cheeks, leaving trails where her face had become sooty. She brandished an empty photograph album at Wendell who had awoken, sitting bolt upright, and was staring at her in wide-eyed surprise. Monica, beside him, stirred more slowly, reaching over to the bedside table for her glasses before taking in Hermione.</p><p> </p><p>‘Wha-?’ Wendell stammered.</p><p> </p><p>‘The photos, Dell. Did you <em>burn</em> them all?’    </p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t want them in this house!’ he replied, his voice tinged with an anger Hermione had not expected. ‘They are of ghosts!’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, Dell! Don’t you see? They were of <em>us</em>; you and Mon – <em>Jean</em> – and me!’ Her voice was frantic and breathy. Wendell frowned, shaking his head and paling visibly. He pressed himself up against the headboard of the bed looking quite terrified, pulling the duvet over his chest like protective shield. Hermione thrust the first photo she had pulled from the ashes under his nose and repeated, ‘don’t you see? Don’t you see?’</p><p> </p><p>Wendell looked between Hermione and the photograph with a stricken expression. He shook his head slowly. ‘Those people don’t exist,’ he spat.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione!’ Monica spoke quietly, pleading with Hermione to stop.</p><p> </p><p>‘You must recognise yourself, Dell!’ Hermione persisted, regardless. ‘And the girl, your girl? Look at her! You do see her here, don’t you? Does she not exist?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You tell me,’ he replied, defiantly. ‘She left me, she left me, she left me…’ He becomes incoherent, nonsensical, cries, and Hermione watches him, aghast. It is hard to reconcile that the man before her is her father, he is so vastly changed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Please!’ Monica said, rising from the bed and moving to Hermione’s side. ‘Don’t set him off. It’s not long since I got him calm.’ She looked at her husband with an almost fearful expression.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione swallowed more sobs and tiredly acquiesced to Monica’s request. It was done now, the burning of the photographs, and it couldn’t be undone. He would never understand the magnitude of it, what the loss of these last vestiges of Hermione’s time with her parents – her <em>real</em> parents – would mean to her. At the same time, Crookshanks pressed against Hermione’s leg, urging her, and, with reluctance, Hermione left the room, the sounds of Wendell’s panicked refrain of ‘she left me’ lessening as she descended the stairs again.</p><p> </p><p>She moved to the kitchen where she quickly cleaned the mess from the log burner with her wand, before washing her hands at the sink. She paused to look out of the window. The sun was now proudly risen and the meadow, which stretched from the back of the farm, softly undulating, down to where a river ran, was in full bloom. The beauty of it was in stark juxtaposition to the ugliness within the house, within Hermione. She thought of her parents as they had been, and thought of what she had left of them. She has never grieved her loss, always believing, or hoping, that there was a way back for them. In this moment, she isn’t so confident.</p><p> </p><p>‘A cup of tea,’ Monica said, disturbing Hermione’s thoughts as she bustled into the kitchen a short time later. ‘A cup of tea will make everything better.’ She flicked on the kettle and pulled three mugs from a cupboard. Hermione wiped the last of her tears on her sleeve and sat sniffing at the table. She accepted the tea from Monica, who disappeared upstairs briefly to deliver a cup to Wendell, and then returned and sat at the table, placing her hand soothingly over Hermione’s.</p><p> </p><p>‘You told us before that those photographs were of us – the three of us.’</p><p> </p><p>When Hermione thought back to that day, she could feel the heat of the Australian sun on her skin, could smell the sweetness of the strange purple flowers that grew in the garden Monica and Wendell had cultivated in the year they had been out there. They had sat on rattan garden furniture, drinking fresh lemonade. They had welcomed Hermione with bemusement, this stranger who had turned up on their doorstep, endearing herself to them with her familiarity.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes. It upset you,’ Hermione replied. Everything had changed that day; it was the pivot betwixt the before and the after.</p><p> </p><p>Monica nodded. ‘It made as much sense to me then as it does it now. I could look at those photos,’ she said, picking up the one of the little family in Paris, observing it wistfully, ‘and I could see that they were of me and that they were of Wendell. I could even see that the little girl shares a resemblance to yourself. But it makes no sense to me that it really could be us; it is unfathomable to me that twenty years ago I could have been travelling in France.’*</p><p> </p><p>‘Can you not just accept what I’m telling you?’ Hermione asked, knowing it was unfair and futile.</p><p> </p><p>Monica chuckled. ‘It is not so easy as that. But, Hermione – look at me – I do think of you as my daughter, which I hope can be enough.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione nodded, not really meaning it, and suddenly realised that Monica and Wendell probably thought her as mad as she thought them; this girl, a stranger, who arrived on their doorstep professing to be the daughter they never knew they had. They probably fostered their relationship because they felt sorry for her, thought <em>she</em> needed <em>their</em> help. It was laughable. ‘What <em>were</em> you doing twenty years ago, Mon?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I worked as a bank teller,’ she said, with a frown, ‘and Wendell was the manager.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione recognised the narrative she had woven into the false memory charm she had performed on her parents; inconspicuous, mundane, dull. Monica said it with such solid conviction. This was Monica’s unwavering truth and Hermione was powerless to change that now. ‘How’s Wendell?’ she asked instead, her fight extinguished, at least for the moment.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine for now,’ Monica assured her, ‘but more generally speaking, he’s getting worse.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t worry,’ Hermione replied, wishing she believed her own words, ‘I’m going to find a way to help him.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘I know you’re still angry with me but I need to practice,’ Hermione said, brushing past Severus in the doorway of number 7, her hands filled with two large hessian bags full of freshly purchased potions ingredients. It was three days since their argument, three days since their last communication.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do come in,’ Severus said, at the empty door where she’d stood a moment before; she would never have heard him anyway, having already made her way to kitchen and begun setting up for one of their brewing sessions.</p><p> </p><p>He pushed the door closed and turned. Making his way down the short hallway he stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and leant against the frame, arms folded across his chest. He watched her bustling about, being uncharacteristically clumsy as she placed the pots on the stove, and avoiding his eye. She bristled with a strange energy and he soon realised she was on the brink of tears; she had made a choice between this frenetic business and breaking down in tears, and had chosen the former. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing,’ she said, looking up at him with ruddy cheeks and issuing him a strained smile. ‘My exams are soon and I need to practice, that’s all. Practice makes perfect.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Your exams are two months away,’ he reasoned with her, ‘and you’ve already mastered all the potions you might get asked to make for it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Six weeks and, like I say, practice makes perfect,’ she repeated, a little tersely.</p><p> </p><p>She placed the chopping board on the counter and pulled open the cutlery drawer, which he had long ago taught her the knack for, and took out one of the sharper knives. After throwing the mandrakes into the pot to stew she set about on the Galanthus Nivalis petals. As she brought the knife down over the first one he noticed how violently she was shaking.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-No. I’m fine,’ she insisted. She clutched a flower with her left hand and began slicing, not at all in the way he had shown her, but rather furiously and thoughtlessly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione, please stop.’</p><p> </p><p>She ignored him and then, ‘ow!’ she exclaimed, not a moment later, and suddenly the chopping board was covered in her blood, the white Galanthus Nivalis turned crimson. She stared at her finger for a moment, and then the tears came and she sank to the floor, leaning her back against the kitchen cupboard, her finger still dripping over the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Severus was by her side in an instance. A quick glance at her finger revealed the wound was deep and her urged her to elevate it while he found the kitchen roll out and wrapped it around her bleeding digit.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where’s your wand?’ he then asked. She didn’t immediately reply, so he was forced to ask again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Handbag,’ she winced, through her sobs.</p><p> </p><p>He moved on his knees to where she’d left her handbag on one of the kitchen chairs. Thankfully, the wand handle was sticking out of the zip so he didn’t have to go rummaging. He pulled it out and moved back to her, chanting the one healing spell etched into his mind as the only counter to <em>sectumsempra</em>: <em>vulnera sanentur</em>. His magic seemed weak from disuse; even though he’d been helping Hermione with the charms parts of the potions, he had seldom actually incanted, and Apparating seemed so habitual now, he hardly thought of it as magic. But slowly, the flow of the blood was assuaged, the wound was cleaned, and then it knitted neatly together. In the absence of dittany, she may end up with a thin, silvery scar, like a line of thread across the tip of her forefinger, but at least the bleeding has stopped. He quickly <em>scourgyfied</em> the floor and her top and then leant back against the kitchen cupboards beside her. When he had released her hand, she hugged her knees, drawing herself in as if to make herself as small as possible. Unsure, at first, how welcome it would be after their dispute the other day, he placed an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close, and felt relieved as she melted into his side. Her body was wracked with sobs for a few moments longer and then, eventually, she stilled.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you OK?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Better now,’ she replied, pushing herself a little more firmly into him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Good.’ He tightened his grip. He’d regretted letting her leave under such unresolved circumstances the other night, and he wasn’t going to let go willingly now she was back.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I… I <em>will</em> tell you what has happened,’ she said, her eyes puffy and still watery. ‘One day, I’ll tell you all about it. But… just not yet. I’m not ready. I’m sorry… I never told anyone, not <em>really</em>, anyway.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not even Potter and Weasley?’ he asked, disdainfully.</p><p> </p><p>‘Please, Severus, don’t. I don’t have the energy.’</p><p> </p><p>He sighed. ‘I just mean… there isn’t <em>anyone</em> you can talk to about it?’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. ‘But, when the time comes, I’ll tell you everything. I promise. Can you accept that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I… what are you waiting for?</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know. I’ll just know it when it arrives…. I suspect there are still things you haven’t felt ready to share with me yet.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked down at her, wondering what she thought she knew but not disagreeing with her. ‘Then, yes,’ he said, albeit a little hesitantly. ‘I can accept that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you, and I’m sorry about the other night.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, me too. And you should know… that’s an old box of condoms upstairs. I mean, in date, but old. When I first got out of Azkaban I had some… pent up frustrations.’</p><p> </p><p>She practically snorted. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘and, err, Natasha didn’t help you take out your frustrations?’</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t entirely sure where this sudden insecurity had come from. Certainly, his behaviour the other night wouldn’t have helped, but it was a new side to her nonetheless. ‘No, I can promise you that. I just feel like maybe I owe Natasha, after everything she did for my mum, so, sometimes, when her kids are out of the way, at their dad’s or whatever, I go over to help her, I don’t know, build bunk beds, stopper leaks under the sink, put up shelves… that kind of thing.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re good at DIY? Wandless?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve had to get good at it living in this crumbling old hovel with no wand, haven’t I?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm. I suppose. That’s quite attractive, you know?’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Also, I do just <em>know</em> you’d never cheat,’ she added. ‘Loyalty is one of your less Slytherin traits.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think there might have been a compliment in there somewhere.’</p><p> </p><p>‘There was,’ she chuckled. ‘And it is one of my less Gryffindor traits that I would punish you by making you believe that I thought you would.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘I did quite like that you were jealous. Very Slytherin of me, indeed,’ he pointed out. ‘But that’s why it makes no sense to Sort by personality.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What would you suggest?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorting by academic ability would have made my life a lot easier,’ he grumbled, recalling the effort of teaching the likes of Hermione and Draco alongside the Neville Longbottoms of the world. ‘But why Sort at all; people can’t be so easily compartmentalised.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Quite,’ she said, with a pointed look. ‘Speaking of Sorting, well, of Hogwarts… We saw Professor McGonagall the other day.’</p><p> </p><p>‘How is she?’ he found himself asking, remembering the warmth of her letters.</p><p> </p><p>‘Err… fine,’ Hermione replied, apparently a little taken aback by how quickly and forcefully he’d asked the question. ‘We discussed a tenth anniversary memorial for the year after next. We’re all suffering in one way or another and just sort of drifting in it, so we thought something more formal might… help.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ he said, instantly loathing the idea but not wanting to belittle Hermione’s apparent enthusiasm for it now they had made up. He wouldn’t need to be a part of it, he reminded himself. ‘I opened her letters,’ he then admitted.</p><p> </p><p>‘Really? What did they… sorry, you don’t have to tell me.’</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled deeply. ‘They were full of… kindness,’ he said, steadily. ‘Just as I’d suspected they would be. Precisely the kind of thing that makes me long for the wizarding world again and precisely the type of thing I’d been seeking to avoid.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You think you don’t deserve kindness,’ she said, and it was a statement, not a question. ‘We didn’t speak about you, when we met, but I think she would like to see you. I think she’s… lonely, in a way. It might be of benefit to you both.’</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t say anything, just sighed, released her, gently, and got to his feet. He held his hands out to her and pulled her up too. He had been reluctant to allow Hermione back into his life but, in the end, it had not been so bad. So, he had to wonder what was different about Minerva, who could surely mean him no harm. But he and Hermione were cocooned, insulated, it was just the two of them; that was the thing about secrets, the more people who knew them, the more tenuous they became.</p><p> </p><p>‘Shall we continue?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the brewing equipment.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m perhaps too tired to brew right now. Maybe I’ll nap,’ she conceded, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve, ‘but I do need to practice more. I think I’m going to quit working at the shop, to make more time.’</p><p> </p><p>‘OK,’ Severus said, frowning at her. ‘If that’s what you want.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You have the time to help me?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I have nothing <em>but</em> time.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>And so that is what they did. She came every day, began to stay over more nights. They worked on Memory Potions and Forgetfulness Potions and Dreamless Sleep Potions, Calming Draughts and Mandrake Restorative Draughts and Dittany-laced Draughts. Severus patiently helped Hermione work on the ratios for her own memory concoction and offered help with how its potency might be increased. They worked diligently and punctiliously, Severus being no more lenient in his standards and Hermione no less determined in her ambition or purpose.</p><p> </p><p>He would implore her to take breaks and she would frantically remind him that they didn’t have so long, a protestation that recalled to him a haunting conversation from eight months prior:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘…I’m only going to be here until July… We have this finite period of time…’</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>‘…You’ll be gone in July?...’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘…I’ll be gone in July….’</em>
</p><p>Now the mere notion seemed completely incomprehensible. He couldn’t remember why he had ever even said such a thing, couldn’t think what would have possessed him to. Surely these thoughts had occurred to her too. Unless, of course, they hadn’t, or, worse, they had and she still intended to leave.</p><p> </p><p>They would collapse into bed at the end of the day, exhausted but content. She would fall asleep before him and he would watch her in the darkness, the little pouting of her lips as she dreamed, the rhythmic softness of her breathing. He had always thought himself intolerant of too much company, but he realised now the company had just never been right before. He was aware he was taking something from her, stealing some strange strength. He felt selfish if he dwelled on it, but could justify it while ever he was helping her with potions, giving something back. But soon he would have served his purpose, and then what? He would be discarded, just as he had always been discarded when his usefulness elapsed. Tomorrow she would wake up and travel to St. Mungo’s for her final exam and when she returned in the evening she would be at a juncture, the direction she chose not necessarily including him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ she announced, after breakfast the next day. ‘Enough procrastination. I should get going.’</p><p> </p><p>He stood from the kitchen table and put his hands on her hips. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ he said, earnestly, meeting her eye. ‘Just take your time, focus.’</p><p>She managed a small smile. ‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘for everything,’ though all her heard was <em>‘…I’ll be gone in July….’ </em>He felt his own smile falter and so pulled her into an embrace, inhaling the scent of the shampoo she used on her hair, so she wouldn’t see his uncertainty.</p><p>‘Go on then,’ he finally spoke again, ‘and good luck.’</p><p>She reached up to kiss him and then Apparated right out of the kitchen. He stared at the spot where she had been stood for a moment, then, with a sigh, turned away. He took himself to the marshes; summer was coming now and they were bright and warm, the sunlight glittering off the surface of the water. He smoked a cigarette; she would never know and soon she would be gone and it wouldn’t matter anyway. He walked until his body ached, the discomfort serving as a distraction from his thoughts, and then he Apparated home just before he knew she was expected to return.</p><p>As if on cue, the front door swung open and she stood before him, beaming, a bottle of something expensive looking in her hands. Without a word she moved forwards, closing the space between them in hallway, pressing her lips against his, and throwing her arms around his shoulders. This felt so comfortable now, and yet new and exciting every time.</p><p>‘Finished,’ she said, breathlessly, pulling away from him slightly, ‘and now we celebrate!’</p><p>‘You don’t want to celebrate with your course-mates?’ he asked, ‘or your… other friends?’</p><p>‘No, Severus,’ she replied, still hanging off his neck. ‘Not today. I want to celebrate with <em>you</em>. Only <em>you</em> know what I’ve been through to get to this point. And you helped me, you deserve some of this too,’ she said, indicating the bottle of what he now realised was Champagne. He wasn’t sure he had ever been in such close proximity to Champagne, certainly he had never tasted it.</p><p>He nodded. ‘I don’t have any fancy glasses,’ he said, leading her into the kitchen and pulling down two simple tumblers.</p><p>She laughed. ‘Sacrilege, I’m sure,’ she said, taking the tumblers from him, popping the cork, and filling them both.</p><p>‘To you,’ he said, taking a glass and raising it.</p><p>‘Like I said, I couldn’t have done it without you. To... us.’</p><p>He nodded, feeling insurmountably sad, ignoring the call of <em>‘…I’ll be gone in July…</em>,’ and chinked his glass gently against hers.</p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They lay in bed later that night, Hermione with her back to him, his arms wrapped around her, pressing her into his chest, slightly possessively.</p><p> </p><p>‘So, what’s next?’ he asked, quietly, his breath warm on the crown of her head.</p><p> </p><p>‘What do you mean?’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘Well, what was it you said to me not all that long ago, about how brilliantly minded people are not usually content with sitting idle all day? So, what I mean is, what’s your next step?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not sure I dare believe I’ve passed my exams until I’ve seen my results.’</p><p> </p><p>‘People under my tutelage don’t fail their exams,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>She laughed a laugh he suddenly couldn’t imagine himself living without and his insides writhed uncomfortably. ‘I wish I shared your confidence, but, OK, let’s dare to believe for a moment,’ she began, ‘I suppose… I’ll start applying for jobs. St. Mungo’s has the biggest department for memory maladies, so I’ll definitely apply there, but there are good research opportunities at King Arthur’s in Glastonbury, and I’ll be living closer to there, once my current tenancy ends, so that would make sense…’</p><p> </p><p>So, there it was. She did intend to leave. She had continued talking but he didn’t hear what she was saying, couldn’t over the sound of his heart pounding and blood rushing past his ears. His first thought was that he’d never hear her voice again. She’d promise she’d call him, but her voice didn’t sound the same down the line, and she’d forget anyway; she’d be busy with work and far away and even if she meant her promise when she first said it, she wouldn’t keep it. It wouldn’t be her fault, but she wouldn’t keep it. But there were other things he would miss too; the way she smiled even when he was doing his best to be a grouch, the way she humoured him when he spoke about nature, and the feel of her hair, silken, between his fingers. He sensed panic rise within him and realised he couldn’t let this happen, that he was at power to stop it, maybe, and for once in his life he must act with self-determination.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t go,’ he found himself saying, almost inaudibly, into her hair.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’ she said, breaking off from whatever it was she’d been saying before.</p><p> </p><p>He shifted away from her and lay on his back, one forearm shielding his face as he attempted to disguise his self-consciousness. ‘Don’t go,’ he croaked, a little louder.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* I’m not really a fan of the Harry Potter films but I watched the scene where Hermione “obliviates” her parents when I was writing this. This isn’t what happens in the books, where she specifically states she “modified” their memories. In the film, Hermione fades from all her family photos but I have no recollection of this happening in the books, so that’s what I’m going with. That said, apparently she isn't left with a "Mudblood" scar in the books either (or it isn't explicitly stated that she does) so really it would seem I just use bits of the books and films as it suits my purpose.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. The Dawn Chorus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione rolled onto her front, perched on her elbows, and Severus took in the sight of her, all wild-haired and swollen-lipped from their love-making. ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying,’ she said, slowly.</p><p> </p><p>He met her gaze, albeit with nervous reluctance. ‘I don’t want you to leave,’ he explained. The issue suddenly felt clamant; now or never. ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t apply for the jobs you want,’ he added quickly, to quell any accusations of him stifling her, ‘I’m just saying, I’d like it if… if you were to stay… <em>here</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>She studied him for a moment in the silvery moonlight that leaked through a gap in the curtains. ‘We’ve never really talked about the future,’ she said.</p><p> </p><p>‘It always seemed far away.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Until suddenly it wasn’t,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose I had assumed we’d continue as we are… only, I’d stay with Mon- my parents,’ she added, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully.</p><p> </p><p>He reached up to gently caress her bare shoulder with his knuckles, her skin smooth beneath the roughness of his own. A small smile ghosted her lips, her eyes widened encouragingly. ‘I can’t speak to a <em>forever</em>,’ he spoke again, with a regretful sigh, ‘all I know is that whenever you’re not here, I… I miss you. Very much. And I appreciate we haven’t been… <em>together</em> for long and that Cokeworth doesn’t have much to offer - I wouldn’t want you to feel trapped here - and I also know you don’t enjoy Apparating or using the Floo over long distances-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Are you trying to talk me into it, or out of it?’ she asked, chuckling softly.</p><p> </p><p>He screwed his eyes closed, searching for the words, oppressed by the burden of what might be at stake. ‘It’s just… the thought of you being so far away, us trying to catch time together here and there… it would never be enough.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I would <em>make</em> time for you, Severus.’</p><p> </p><p>He laughed, cynically. ‘I knew you would say that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, I would,’ she protested, looking slightly hurt that he didn’t believe her.</p><p> </p><p>He <em>wanted</em> to believe her, but he’d made similar promises with someone before; it didn’t matter that they’d been Sorted into different houses, Lily had insisted, they’d be best friends forever, they shared some classes, could spend time together during breaks and on the weekends… but, of course, they hadn’t. Really, he had lost her long before he called her a “mudblood,” she made new friends who she wanted to be with, whilst he floundered, descending further and further into the murky world of The Dark Arts, a futile attempt to compensate. He tried to remind himself that Lily had been eleven, and that promises made as children are not the same as those made by adults, but that was little comfort when he felt like he was holding onto Hermione by the thinnest of threads, even at the best of times.</p><p> </p><p>‘You say that now,’ he grumbled, ‘but you won’t. You’ll have a new life, you’ll get busy, move on. Right <em>now</em>, this is convenient-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-You are anything <em>but</em> convenient, Severus!’ she said, teasingly, but he wasn’t in the mood and her smile faltered as he scowled at her. With a sigh, she responded to his ongoing sullenness by shifting away from him, which the last thing he wanted, and sitting crossed-legged beside him, pulling the duvet around her shoulders to cover herself. She observed him sadly. ‘I’m just trying to understand,’ she spoke again, more gently, ‘because this doesn’t really fit with you not wanting anyone to know about us, which had rather lead me to believe you saw this as something quite… <em>temporary</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But… but you <em>said</em>… July…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she exclaimed softly, ‘gosh, Severus, I’d forgotten all about that!’ She scooched forwards, leaning over him and planting her hands into the mattress on either side of his torso. ‘That,’ she began again, speaking carefully, looking imploringly into his eyes, ‘was <em>before</em>, wasn’t it? I couldn’t have foreseen this – couldn’t have foreseen <em>us </em>- before.’</p><p> </p><p><em>Indeed</em>, he thought; he was living it and could still hardly believe it was real. He inhaled deeply, his breath shaky. He was clenching his jaw so ferociously, it ached. ‘You <em>don’t</em> want it to be temporary?’ he dared himself to ask, bracing himself for her inevitable rejection.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, without hesitation, like it should have been obvious all along. Then she smiled a warm, comforting smile and shook her head, her curls bouncing about her face.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione lowered her head and pressed a tender kiss to his lips; he seemed deep in thought and it took him a moment to respond. Even when she pulled away, a short time later, he still observed her with a slightly astounded expression. She sought his closeness, turning and laying with her head on his chest, drawing his strong arm around her shoulder and across her front. She held her right palm against his left, marveling at their differences in size, his long fingers dwarfing hers, before she interlaced them, and allowed them to relax above her breasts. They lay like that for a long time, breathing in sync with one another, content.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Are</em> you ready to tell people about us?’ she asked, at length, and the suddenness of her voice seemed to startle him out of some deep reverie.</p><p> </p><p>He cleared his throat; swallowed. ‘No,’ he admitted, croakily.</p><p> </p><p>‘Then <em>there</em> is our predicament,’ she pointed out. ‘How would it work?’ she asked. ‘How would I stay here and not tell my friends?’ she clarified, still staring at their hands.</p><p> </p><p>‘You would lie,’ he replied, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘That easy, is it?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just lies by omission,’ he said, as if they were somehow more innocuous. Having lived a life saturated by lies and deceit <em>they</em> were his default; it was truth-telling that was the effort.</p><p> </p><p>She laughed at that, parting their hands and instead running her thumb down his forearm, over the faded Dark Mark. Instinctively, he jerked away from her but she held fast, bringing her own wrist, where the word “mudblood” was just visible in the moonlight, up beside it. ‘These shouldn’t be next to one another,’ she said, musingly. ‘And yet…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he whispered, after her long pause. He knew what she inferred, knew how it felt; forbidden, and yet right, like they were in rebellion against something, just the two of them. ‘People wouldn’t like it, you know, if they knew about us?’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>‘You care what people think?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I care what they might think about <em>you</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p>She basked in his protectiveness for a moment, his hold on her firm and unwavering, despite his evident apprehension every time he spoke; all her own uncertainty seemed to ebb away. She felt safe in that moment, and couldn’t quite recall the last time she had felt that way, at least not so completely. She wondered what else she could possibly be looking for if not this sense of peace she was currently experiencing; had she not, secretly, after so many years of drifting, longed for this kind of connectedness with someone?</p><p>There were still things she did not understand, and fleeting moments where her mind won small battles in its war with her heart. But whilst this would have been mightily disquieting once, it suddenly did not seem to matter. She must trust her feelings, just as she had beseeched him to do, after she had snared him into that first kiss.</p><p>It didn’t feel like it had been such a short amount of time either. It felt like really this had started eight years ago, when she would read <em>I Capture the Castle </em>in the flickering lantern light of the hospital wing. Something had occurred between them on those long, lonely nights, even if neither of them had been aware of it; some spark of magic that prophesised their unity all this time later. She was sure of it; Hermione Granger who did not believe in Divination, would have sworn to it. </p><p>She turned in his arms, so her cheek was now against his chest, near his scars, and he snaked his arm around her shoulder, his hand going straight to her curls, where she has learned he finds comfort. She trails a finger up the line of hair on his stomach, up to his chest where she rests it, palm down, so she can feel the beat of his heart beneath his sternum. It pounds and, though he appears calm, his nervousness is revealed.</p><p>It grounds her, brings her resolve. They are in this together. ‘We have the summer, Severus, before I would really need to make any decisions,’ she said, softly. ‘I suggest we take that time – live here together – go slow, and if, at the end of it, we both feel the same way, I will stay.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘You want to <em>think</em> about it?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sure you were hoping for something more affirmative,’ she said, glancing up at him tentatively and he couldn’t help but worry she was concerned what his reaction might be; maybe she was thinking of the pots he’d smashed, or his phone, which she’d found on the kitchen counter and he’d had to explain what had happened. But if that <em>was</em> her concern, it was misplaced.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, lightly, shaking his head. He gently shifted out of their embrace so he hovered over her, leant up on an elbow. ‘In fact, I would expect nothing less than the need for careful consideration from such a <em>brilliantly minded person</em>,’ he added, punctuating the last three words with three kisses trailed between her breasts and down her stomach. Then, in a gentle motion, he kicked his legs over her body so he was straddling her waist. She giggled, only for him to silence her with a deep, bruising kiss, this time on her plush lips, and then they were lost in one another once more.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He was dosing lightly, sometime later, spent from another round of gluttonous sex, when Hermione spoke again: ‘Will there ever come a time, do you think, when you <em>will</em> feel ready for people to know about us?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, his eyes still closed but a smirk sneaking across his features. ‘I want to keep you all to myself.’ But this response was deflection and he knew she would see through it. Indeed, she admonished him with a gentle tap on the arm, telling him, without words, that she needed something more genuine from him. He sighed. ‘I suppose there might have to be,’ he said, resignedly, and then, ‘I’m sure in this case <em>you</em> were hoping for something more affirmative?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You would be giving up a lot,’ she acknowledged.</p><p> </p><p>‘Possibly not as much as you,’ he reminded her.</p><p> </p><p>‘But there could be so much more to gain,’ she said, earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>He opened his eyes to find her laid opposite, on her side, head rested on the pillow, watching him. She’d pulled on a pair of his boxers and one of his old t-shirts, which swamped her, making her look small. <em>Adorable</em>. She reached out a finger and pressed it to his brow, ironing out his frown. Her expression was sanguine and if he allowed himself, he could almost trust, when he looked into those big brown eyes, that she was right. He had already let his guard down, was slipping back much further into the wizarding world than he had ever intended; what difference would it make, really, if people knew about Hermione and him? It might be nice, even, to live freely, without secretiveness, for once, or the fear of being caught.</p><p> </p><p>But, <em>no</em>, his traitorous mind screamed, <em>you can’t, because everybody</em> <em>knows</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you ever read my biography?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Your – oh, you mean the Skeeter book?’ Hermione practically spat. ‘Absolutely not! I wouldn’t read anything <em>she’d</em> written if it was the last book on Earth.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Personally, I found it quite insightful. There was a lot in there I hadn’t known about myself,’ he said, with no little sarcasm. </p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll bet there was,’ Hermione scoffed, scooting closer to him and putting a hand on his upper arm, protective in her own way. ‘The woman’s a charlatan!’</p><p> </p><p>He kept a copy on the bookshelf in the living room, well-thumbed and the spine cracked from frequent readings, hidden behind his collection of ornithology volumes. He had inhaled it, time and again, not because there was much truth to it, but because he wanted to know what narrative the rest of the wizarding world had been spun, needed to know what he might have to defend himself against some day. If he was ever tempted to return to the wizarding world, he need only pull out <em>Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?</em>, read a few lines, and he would be promptly dissuaded, the perpetual thrum of ‘<em>everybody knows</em>’ holding him steadfast against it. His voice would be minute against the far-reaching might of Skeeter’s quill.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nevertheless,’ he said, after a contemplative moment, ‘people will believe what she’s written. Your <em>friend</em>, Potter-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-you really must stop taking that tone every time you mention his name-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-he told everybody the one thing I didn’t want anyone knowing. The one thing I’d sought to keep secret almost my entire life. I woke up from a coma to find that <em>everybody knew</em>, just like that’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘<em>everybody knew</em>, like it was <em>nothing</em>. I don’t want to live in a world where <em>everybody knows</em>.’ He considered what it would mean for Hermione, for people to know they were together but to assume she was his second choice. He wondered for a moment whether she was, then shook such thoughts from his mind. They made him prickle with guilt; guilty that he might never feel the same way about Hermione as he had Lily, and guilty that by feeling anything for Hermione he was somehow betraying Lily. ‘When I shared my memories, I didn’t realise that I would be around to deal with aftermath,’ he concluded.</p><p> </p><p>She closed her eyes, as if pained, when he said these last words, and he reached out a comforting hand to her thigh, drawing soothing circles there with his forefinger. ‘Sorry,’ she said, opening her eyes again at his touch. ‘I don’t like to think of what almost happened… and I’m sorry you feel betrayed. I can assure you that was never Harry’s intention.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘It’s done now. And, anyway… it’s not just <em>that</em>. When you say, within the private sanctuary of <em>us</em>, that it doesn’t matter that I’m twice your age, a murderer, and once was a Death Eater, I can believe it, just about. But not everyone is going to see it that way, are they? Your friends certainly won’t. They’ll get in your ear… make you see sense.’</p><p> </p><p>‘They could <em>never</em>,’ she protested, quite forcefully.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm…,’ he mumbled, unconvinced, ‘and not everyone thinks I’m some hero, do they? People hold grudges and… I don’t just have myself to think about now, do I?’ he added, issuing her a half-hearted smile. She responded with a small smile of her own. ‘All I’m saying,’ he continued, ‘is that I need more time.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘I do wish you could see there are people who care about you, who would want you to be happy, and would be pleased that we made each other so. But, if that is how you feel, then I won’t push you. It isn’t so different to me asking you to trust I’ll one day tell you about my… thing.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione tried to imagine living in a world where your perceived greatest shame had been exposed on such as scale as Severus’s love of Lily had been. She imagined a Skeeter article in <em>The Daily Prophet</em> about what she’d done to her parents, how she might similarly want to retreat. The mere thought made her blood run cold. So too did the thought of lying to her friends though. She might tell them she was staying with a friend, for now, but it would not, could not, last forever. </p><p> </p><p>Severus was still running mesmerising circles over the skin on her thigh and she focused on that for a moment until she felt steady again.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s cold,’ she said and he pulled the duvet up over their shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s always cold in this house,’ he replied. ‘Something for you to look forward to.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled, snuggling into him a little. She wondered vaguely what time it was, before realising it didn’t really matter. ‘Maybe we should focus on the more immediate future. For now, at least,’ she suggested. ‘My tenancy ends in less than a week.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘I still can’t believe you said yes,’ Severus responded, grinning, though his eyes felt too heavy to open.</p><p> </p><p>‘You say that as if I’ve fallen for some trick.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Perhaps you have. I do believe Skeeter concludes I <em>am</em> something of a scoundrel.’ Hermione laughed tiredly and the thought that he <em>wouldn’t</em> have to live without that laugh buoyed him. ‘You could move in tomorrow, for me,’ he said with a shrug. The sooner the better, as far as he was concerned.</p><p> </p><p>‘Alright.’</p><p> </p><p>His eyes snapped open. ‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, alright.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Right… OK then…’ he stammered.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, don’t sound <em>too</em> enthusiastic, will you?’ she giggled. ‘It’s up to you, but tomorrow is good for me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, swallowing the panic that had risen in him at the sudden realness of it all. ‘Tomorrow it is.’</p><p> </p><p>He drew her closer to him, his chin resting on the top of her head and they lay like that for an indeterminable amount of time, listless on the ocean of the night; perhaps it was the early hours, perhaps midnight had not yet passed. The only certainty was their togetherness.</p><p> </p><p>‘And I want you to let me look after you, Severus,’ she whispered into his chest. Her tone was heavy with things unspoken but he found himself nodding, accepting and grateful, though he was left wondering again what she thought she knew.</p><p> </p><p>They talked of other things too, after that; of plans and fears and things they would like to do together, experience together. They were both nervous, but excited, which may her giggly and him go quiet. Time was meaningless, their tiredness ignored. They were simply enveloped in one another and neither wanted it end.</p><p> </p><p>He allowed himself to be cajoled into a short holiday, though in the end, he had not really required much convincing.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve never been on holiday,’ he said, when she first proposed the idea, something childlike in his voice he himself didn’t even recognise.</p><p> </p><p>‘Never?’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>‘Gosh! Then we must! We’ll go to the seaside and eat fish and chips and play on the arcades and it’ll rain but we’ll still go to the beach and we’ll get 99s with monkey blood that’ll melt down our hands quicker than we can eat them…’ she trailed off, sensing he wasn’t listening to what she was saying, but rather enchanted by the melody of her voice as usual. He had a way stilling when this was the case, a distant expression on his face, as if he were hypnotised. ‘You’re different, you know, when you’re away from here?’ she said, which broke the spell.</p><p> </p><p>‘Different how?’ he yawned.</p><p> </p><p>‘More… at ease.’</p><p> </p><p>He considered this, but didn’t like where it sent his mind; away from Spinner’s End he was unmanacled from the specters of his past, he could enjoy himself without their sneering jests. But he also didn’t want them infiltrating <em>this</em> moment. Tonight was something he would look back on in the future, he thought, it had the kind of energy that, when recalled, could help one conjure a Patronus. ‘Just tell me more about our holiday,’ he replied, simply needing to hear the song in her voice again.</p><p> </p><p>And she did; she told him how they’d stay in a cottage, right on the shore, and at dawn and dusk they’d walk on the sands. They’d paddle in the cold waves and watch ships disappear over the horizon. She knew he’d complain about the place being busy with tourists and she’d drag him round the souvenir shops, which he’d hate but they were part of the fun, she said, so he must. Her excitement was infectious and in that moment she might have got him to agree to anything.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ssh… listen,’ he said, holding a silencing finger to her lips after a time. There was no sound but the soft chirruping of birds outside the window. ‘The dawn chorus,’ he whispered. It was strange, he never seemed to see any birds in Cokeworth, and yet, the dawn chorus never failed; that startling ray of nature emerging from within the perpetual industrial grey of the place.</p><p> </p><p>‘We stayed up all night,’ Hermione whispered, beside him. Suddenly the night, which before had stretched infinitely, seemed to have been all too short. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ear bent to the birdsong.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, looking across at her. She met his gaze and in the pale light of dawn he saw the subtle blush of her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>She smiled at him. ‘We should get some sleep,’ she then said, ‘we’ll need our rest if we’re going to be moving my things tomorrow.’</p><p> </p><p>He reached for her, in the darkness, and then, like that, in one another’s arms, they finally slept.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Mundane Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What might have been a terrible shriek was emitted as a panicked gasp; Hermione stood rooted, mouth agape. It hung in the wardrobe like the darkest of shadows, pristine and starched. She ran a hand over the buttons of the frock coat, felt the silkiness of the robes beneath her fingers, then seemed to realise what she was doing, what she was touching, and withdrew.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps she should not have been quite so surprised to see Severus’s old teaching robes hung up in the wardrobe of the spare bedroom at Spinner’s End; the whole room being filled, as it was, with relics of his past. She had never entered here before today; it was kept locked, typically, but upon sight of how many possessions she had, Severus had given her the key and said she should make whatever use of it she wished. He had seemed quite unconcerned as he’d shrugged off her gratitude and moved back downstairs to make some tea, but when Hermione had opened the door, she had been greeted by the strangest of sights.</p><p> </p><p>It was cramped and musty. A roller blind at the window was pulled down almost to the bottom; mesmerising dust motes danced in the bright shaft of summer sunshine that burnt through the thin gap before the windowsill. A single bed stood pushed against the wall in front of the window, with a narrow desk beside it. There were some Muggle toys stuffed in a wooden box under the desk; some <em>Thunderbirds</em> rocket-ships with chipped paint and broken wings, a battered leather football, a one-armed Action Man. But it was the cork board hanging above the desk, that caught Hermione’s attention.</p><p> </p><p>She moved forwards in the dim light to inspect it more closely; it was adorned with numerous scraps of paper, each covered in Severus’s thin scrawl and appearing to depict alterations he’d made to various potions and charms, not dissimilar to the notes in his old <em>Advanced Potions</em> book. There were also a few pieces of Slytherin memorabilia; a fabric crest pinned into the corner, a green and silver tie draped over the top, and the word “Slytherin,” the “S” an almost cartoonish snake, drawn out in coloured crayon in such a way as suggested he’d done it at a young age, long before he ever started Hogwarts. There was a photograph as well, which showed a sallow looking Severus at about the age of fourteen, acne-scarred and greasy-haired, dressed in his school robes and flanked by two other boys of a similar age. They all looked solemnly into the camera, blinking with cold looks in their eyes, awkward in the way most teenagers tend to be when having their photograph taken.</p><p> </p><p>Something else caught her attention then too; another piece of paper of the same glossy texture as the photograph, though it appeared to be stuck into the corkboard backwards so only the plain white backing showed, the number “1970” written on it in blue biro. Without thinking Hermione pulled out the pin and turned it over. This photograph didn’t move; it showed Severus much younger, wearing a pair of too-short jeans and a grubby t-shirt. A Manchester City football scarf was thrown over his shoulders and then wrapped around the shoulders of the figure next to him, who was of a similar height, with smooth auburn hair and wearing a neat summer dress. As if by instinct, Hermione knew this must be Lily, but it would have been impossible to conclude as much with any certainty because her face had been scratched out of the image, leaving a white graze of torn paper where, Hermione knew, those same green eyes as Harry’s would have blazed out of the photograph otherwise. With a sigh, she pinned it back into the board, just as it had been found.</p><p> </p><p>She had been prepared to push the strangeness of the room from her mind, focus instead on deciding which books she could afford to leave in their storage boxes for now, when she had opened the wardrobe door and been confronted by his teaching robes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ Severus said, entering the room with two cups of tea in his hands. He looked between Hermione and the open wardrobe and then moved past them both to place the drinks on the desk. He leaned over the bed and opened the blind fully before pushing open the window. The sudden light and fresh air dispelled the ominous, spectral aspect the robes had adopted and suddenly Hermione was just staring at hanging pieces of fabric. Severus sat down on the bed with an aching groan and leant his back against the wall; he had been helping her carry heavy boxes about most of the afternoon, without the aid of magic, and had undoubtedly earned a rest.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry,’ she said, turning away from the wardrobe and picking up her tea. ‘I wasn’t expecting…’ she trailed off, glancing back at the robes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he murmured into his drink. ‘I’m not sure why I keep them. Just in case, I suppose.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just in case of what?’</p><p> </p><p>He glanced up at her with a weary expression. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, simply.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm,’ she responded, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. To Hermione, the robes spoke greatly of Severus’s inner conflict; though it went unspoken, being so at odds with what he had been saying just last night, the only real explanation for him keeping the robes was if he could foresee, at some point in the future, the potential for him to return to the wizarding world. Hermione swallowed this small hope that he hadn’t really turned his back on it forever. ‘And the rest of this room?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t keep it like this for any sentimental reasons,’ he insisted, ‘in fact, I’ve barely been in here since I came back.’ He leant forwards and ran his finger across the desk, leaving a clean channel in the thick dust. He inspected the tip of his finger and then wiped it on his trousers. ‘My mum kept it like this all these years. God knows why.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think she told us when we visited her together,’ Hermione said, looking at him pointedly, ‘she was just a mum, holding on to the hope her son might one day need it again, in case you ever came home to her.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… You’ll notice it locks only from the outside.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione observed the lock on the door and saw what he meant. ‘You would be locked in here?’ she asked, utterly horrified.</p><p> </p><p>He swallowed and nodded. ‘Usually when I’d done accidental magic. My dad seemed to think that was the safest option. Now I can’t stand to be in here with the door closed. But, hey… come here,’ he urged her, and she moved to sit beside him, leaving her half-finished tea on the desk. ‘I don’t want today to be about that,’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Today is a new beginning,’ she agreed, ‘a point from which we make <em>new</em> memories.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ he whispered, placing his hand over hers where it rested on her lap.</p><p> </p><p>‘What for?’ she chuckled, softly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Being here,’ he shrugged, issuing her that lopsided grin, then kissing her forehead and releasing her hand. ‘Can I ask you something, though?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Why do you have so many copies of the same book?’</p><p> </p><p>She followed his gaze to where she had piled her multiple editions of <em>I Capture the Castle</em> on the floor, beside the other boxes of books she was in the process of sorting through.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she said, smilingly. ‘My dad buys me one for Christmas every year.’</p><p> </p><p>‘The same book?’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s my favourite,’ she replied, thinking about how nice it was not to have to lie about Wendell for once; he <em>had</em> bought her numerous copies of <em>I Capture the Castle</em> simply because it was her favourite. It was just that he didn’t necessarily know that, but lies by omission were acceptable to Severus, he had said as much himself… ‘Do you mind if I put up some photographs?’ she then asked, standing and plucking the bubble-wrapped photographs of her and her parents that had previously decorated her bedroom wall at Benji’s from one of the boxes. The only photographs of them she had left. ‘Just in here, if you like, out of the way.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Whatever you want,’ he assured her.</p><p> </p><p>‘And I got us this, look,’ she continued, pulling out another frame in which there was a photograph of the two of them she’d asked a passer-by to take when they were out walking once. It wasn’t the best of photographs; they both squinted with the sun in their eyes, but Severus had been unburdened of something that day and had thrown his arm around her shoulder. She held it up to show him and he scowled. ‘On the mantelpiece in the living room, I think,’ she said, with a rueful smile. He continued to frown but shrugged in acquiescence.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A week later, Severus stood in the shower watching the water struggle to drain down the plug hole.</p><p> </p><p>She had simply fit. Not that it had been without some adjustment, but now she was here, it was difficult to remember his life as it had been before.</p><p> </p><p>It had certainly become harder to sneak off for cigarettes, <em>this</em> he did know; already this week she had caught him, more than once, lighting up in the back yard when he thought she was showering or sleeping, and she had become really quite stern with him. He had promised to do better. She was messier too, than he had expected, leaving crumpled piles of clothes in the bedroom and half-read books lying about the living room. He found himself biting his tongue as he picked up after her. And he was consumed by silent, festering jealousy whenever she left him to visit Potter or even her parents.</p><p> </p><p>But these things were eclipsed by others. He found that he enjoyed doing the mundane things with her; they went to Tesco together, cooked together, did laundry together. They would stay up late, sharing what they were reading and musing on their lives. He savoured the moments in the morning, when he would wake before her and watch her sleeping beside him. She opened new worlds to him, said she wanted to experience many firsts with him; she continually marvelled at the things he said he’d never seen or done and endeavoured to help him explore them. She took him to the cinema where he ate so much sweet popcorn and drank so much fizzy pop he thought he was going to be sick; they went to a department store in the city centre and she helped him pick out some new clothes to replace his faded ones; they went to restaurants he would consider rather fancy but which she assured him weren’t, and to the fairground, when it parked up on Cokeworth Common, and where she gripped his arm as they were spun around by the waltzer.</p><p> </p><p>He might have found, if only he would allow it, that he was rather enjoying himself. But always there was something within him which bid him be cautious, wouldn’t let him trust that this could be real.</p><p> </p><p>With a sigh, he knelt and tweezed the hair blocking the plug between his thumb and forefinger. Standing again he brought it to eye level and grimaced at the matted, damp clod of brown curls. He turned off the shower with his spare hand and stepped over the side of the bath before disposing of the hair down the toilet and flushing it away.</p><p> </p><p>He wiped away an area of steam from the mirror above the sink and observed his face; years of bitterness etched into every crease about his eyes, every grey hair at his chin, and pooled within the depths of his dull gaze.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus?’ her voice sounded from downstairs, ‘dinner’s almost ready.’</p><p> </p><p>It would be time to take her to the marshes soon, he knew, time to show her the murmurations.</p><p> </p><p>‘Coming,’ he called back to her.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A few months ago, Hermione had subscribed to <em>The Daily Prophet</em> jobs supplement and several medical magazines to ensure that she didn’t miss any relevant opportunities. Now, they were delivered by owl to number 7 every morning, invariably disturbing her and Severus’s breakfasting.</p><p> </p><p>‘I thought you’d applied for jobs?’ Severus said one morning as he relieved a tired looking tawny owl of its burden and shoed it away from the kitchen window. He cast a cynical look at the magazine and newspaper as he handed them to Hermione. ‘The neighbours might be Muggles, but they’re not blind,’ he added, jabbing his thumb at where the bird had been perched on the sill.</p><p> </p><p>‘I have. But I don’t want to miss anything interesting that might come up while I wait to hear back about interviews,’ she replied, between mouthfuls of toast. ‘Imagine if the perfect job came up at St. Valentine’s, for example.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ Severus murmured, in a tone which suggested he found this unlikely. He knew she had her heart set on St. Mungo’s or King Arthur’s, but really her priority was opportunities to research memory maladies and beyond that it didn’t really matter where she worked.</p><p> </p><p>As Severus turned back to <em>The Guardian</em>, which he always read, Hermione began flicking through <em>The Daily Prophet </em>proper, not really taking much notice of the articles until the photograph of a face she recognised looked back at her. Thin, pointed features, a slender figure, and bright blond hair. It was Draco Malfoy, appearing quite unchanged, save for a look of <em>weltschmerz</em> in his eyes that Hermione was used to seeing in the eyes of those who had survived the war. Beside him was a slim, rather glamourous looking witch, who Hermione vaguely recalled had been a few years below her at school. ‘Look,’ she said, turning the paper and pushing it across the table to Severus. ‘You were asking after him.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus squinted at the photograph and the few lines of text beneath. ‘Engaged to Astoria Greengrass,’ he read aloud.</p><p> </p><p>‘Typical,’ Hermione snorted. Severus looked at her questioningly. ‘The Greengrass family is one of The Sacred Twenty-Eight. It’s just all so… <em>predictable</em>. The cycle continues.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus didn’t respond to that, but inhaled deeply and said instead, ‘he looks well, at least.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, I suppose that <em>is</em> the important thing,’ she said, sarcastically.</p><p> </p><p>‘He can’t help who he falls in love with,’ Severus pointed out, ‘and I would remind you that your precious Weasleys are one of The Sacred Twenty-Eight.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione considered this and couldn’t argue with the truth of it, though it left her in a strange mood, irrationally irritated, which she had to remind herself wasn’t directed at Severus but rather at things beyond both of their control. ‘Speaking of weddings and Weasleys,’ she said, by way of response, ‘Harry and Ginny’s is at the beginning of August.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, is it? I’ll start picking out my hat,’ Severus hissed, his face contorting into a stiff smirk. He sat back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee, eyeing her challengingly over the top of the mug.</p><p> </p><p>She sighed, tiredly. ‘I’m just saying, I’ll be away for a few days.’</p><p> </p><p>‘A few <em>days</em>?’ he replied, sulkily.</p><p> </p><p>‘I <em>do</em> have a plus one if you want to change your mind about coming!’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m busy that day,’ he grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>‘I haven’t actually told you when it is.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Have you not?’ he raised an eyebrow, turning his attention back to his newspaper.</p><p> </p><p>She rolled her eyes and shook her head smilingly.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione watched a bee, pollen sacs heavy with its harvest, float drunkenly above the flowers in the window box. She had retreated and flung open the sashed window in search of fresh air. Inside The Burrow was stiflingly hot and humid, with too many people crammed into the small space of Ginny’s old bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>Molly was currently fussing about Ginny’s hair, brimming with maternal pride and the unadulterated excitement that came naturally from it being her only daughter’s wedding. On the lawn below, guests were beginning to fill the rows of chairs whilst a harp played by itself near the alter that had been erected at the end of the aisle. It was the glorious type of summer day only August can produce, all high sun, warm, gentle breeze, and the smell of grass and sweet flora in the air. The type of day that seemed to stretch endlessly in a dreamlike golden glow.</p><p> </p><p>There was a stirring in the crowd below as Harry emerged onto the patio, Ron by his side. They both looked handsome in their dress robes, light grey with sprigs of dusty blue hydrangea in their buttonholes to match the bridesmaids’ dresses and Ginny’s bouquet. Talia was suddenly by Hermione’s side, watching Harry and Ron move down the aisle, shaking the guests’ hands. Talia caught Hermione’s eye, smiled and raised her brow in an expression Hermione couldn’t quite interpret but took to be of a possessive nature: <em>Ron looks good, doesn’t he? He looks good and he’s with me</em>, it might have said, but in the next moment Talia had moved away, back into the bedroom, and maybe it had all been in Hermione’s imagination.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione watched after Talia for a moment but was distracted by the soft “popping” of the latch on her little clutch bag opening. The bag was a silvery colour, which matched her dress perfectly, but was completely impractical. It was currently lumpy and bulging with its contents of make-up, perfume, her wand, and her phone. She wished she’d had the forethought to cast the same charm on it as she had her old purple beaded bag, but those things take time and it was too late now. Instead, she rearranged her belongings and pushed down on the flap until she managed to get it closed again.</p><p> </p><p>‘I think it’s almost time,’ she then said, turning back to the room and observing Ginny with a broad smile. Ginny too looked a vision; her dress was simple, made from a thin fabric that seemed to almost float to the ground, but with dropped shoulders and a decorative lace about the bodice. ‘You look beautiful, Gin,’ Hermione added.</p><p> </p><p>‘You all do,’ Molly added, sniffing into a handkerchief. Hermione looked over at Luna and Talia who wore the same dress that she did, though they were taller, and slimmer, which left Hermione feeling somewhat lacking, and perhaps regretting having had quite so many takeaways with Severus recently. But she refused to dwell on this today; it was the wedding of two of her best friends and her chest swelled with happiness for them. ‘Let me get a photograph of you all together,’ Molly then said, ushering Hermione away from the window to stand beside Ginny.</p><p> </p><p>Molly had taken a few photographs when Hermione’s bag chose its moment to open again, regurgitating its contents all over the floor this time. The battery fell out of her mobile phone as it collided with the wooden floorboards and her makeup and wand went scattering in opposite directions. Apologising, she scooped to collect them all and in the next moment, there was a knock on the door and Arthur was there ready to escort his daughter down the aisle. Bundling everything back into her bulging bag, Hermione quickly fell into pace with the rest of the bridal party and followed them through the house and out into the back garden.</p><p> </p><p>The ceremony was undoubtedly beautiful, Harry and Ginny utterly beguiled by one another, and Hermione watched it through fat, happy tears. There had been so little to celebrate post-war, to be amongst her closest friends, surrounded by her second-family, in one of her favourite places, it was all simply wonderful.</p><p> </p><p>Had she wondered what it might be like to have someone sat beside her, passing her tissues the way Bill passed them to Fleur? Had she wondered what it might be like to one day have her own wedding, to stand at the alter and profess undying love to someone? Had she looked over at the various red-headed flower girls and page boys, who must be distant Weasley cousins, and wondered what it might be like to be bouncing a child on her knee the way their mothers were?</p><p> </p><p>Had she wondered what it might be like to have Severus somehow a part of these scenes?</p><p> </p><p>Maybe she had, fleetingly, yes. And what of it?</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione moved through the milling crowd, across the patio and down onto the lawn. People stood in little groups, chatting and laughing over cool drinks and fanning themselves with the programs they’d had left on their seats for the ceremony. A long table had been set up down one side of the garden, groaning with buffet food, while Arthur had taken control of a barbecue which kept sending fire balls into the air and singeing the eyebrows of anyone in the vicinity.    </p><p> </p><p>‘Shall I fetch you another drink, Nana?’ a small, serious voice sounded from nearby where Hermione stood in the queue for the buffet. She turned to find Andromeda Tonks sat on a wicker chair; Teddy perched on the arm of it beside her. He wore a shirt and bowtie with a pair of smart shorts, out of which emerged grazed knees. He swung his legs slightly, his boat shoes skimming the top of the grass. ‘Or another sandwich?’ he then offered.</p><p> </p><p>‘No, no, I’m fine, Teddy,’ Andromeda assured him, albeit wearily. She must only be in her fifties, Hermione thought, doing some quick arithmetic based on her knowledge of the Black Family Tree, and yet she looked thin and drawn, her grey hair bunched messily at the top of her head despite the occasion.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione spooned some potato salad and piled egg and cress sandwiches onto her plate before making her way over to where they were sat. ‘Hi, Teddy,’ she said, beaming at him and sitting down in a second wicker chair next to Andromeda.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi, ‘Mione,’ Teddy replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘I haven’t see you for a while. You’ve gotten taller.’ Teddy smiled and sat up a little straighter. ‘And this must be your Nana?’ Hermione said, addressing Andromeda. ‘I’m Hermione Granger, I… I knew Nymphadora.’</p><p> </p><p>Andromeda seemed almost to wince and then, ‘hello,’ she replied, offering Hermione a thin smile. The older witch seemed to shiver, despite the heat of the afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nana, do you need a blanket?’ Teddy asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Really, Teddy,’ Andromeda replied, quite tersely, ‘I’m fine.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Teddy?’ Hermione said, observing his slightly crestfallen expression, ‘would you mind going and getting me a drink of elderflower cordial? I forgot when I was over there before.’ He grinned and nodded at her before running off over the grass. ‘He dotes on you,’ Hermione told Andromeda as they both watched Teddy squeeze through peoples’ legs as he pushed himself to the front of the drinks table.</p><p> </p><p>‘I know,’ came the sad reply, ‘it should be the other way around though, don’t you think?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione looked at Andromeda, so like Bellatrix save the depth of emotion in her eyes, which her sister would never have been capable of. ‘He knows you adore him. He’s always talking about you.’ Hermione tried to sound reassuring, remembering what Ginny had told her at Hallowe’en about Andromeda not coping.</p><p> </p><p>‘He worries about me and he shouldn’t have to.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… it can’t be easy.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, you know… A young boy, full of magic and energy, and an old woman, full of…’</p><p> </p><p><em>Full of grief</em>, Hermione thought, certain that this was how Andromeda wanted to finish her statement. Her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law, her cousin, even her sister, whatever she might have thought of <em>her</em>; she’d lost practically her entire family in the war, and what opportunity had she had to grieve? Instead, she had been handed her orphaned grandson, in need of her undivided love and affection.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Here you go, ‘Mione,’ Teddy interrupted her, returning with a very full glass of elderflower cordial for her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks, Teddy,’ Hermione said, taking it from him and sipping some out of the top before it spilled.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello,’ a new voice then spoke, dispelling some of the tension. Hermione looked up to see McGonagall smiling down at them. ‘Andromeda, the last time I saw <em>you</em>, you were winning the Quidditch House Cup for Slytherin in the final against Gryffindor in, oh… when would it have been?’</p><p> </p><p>‘1972,’ Andromeda replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘You played Quidditch, Nana?’ Teddy asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I did,’ his grandmother replied, ‘didn’t think I had it in me, did you?’ Andromeda was smiling fondly at him now, her arm somewhat protectively around his back where he had situated himself on the chair arm again.</p><p> </p><p>‘I <em>did</em>!’ he protested. ‘Were you good?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Good?’ McGonagall answered instead. ‘She was brilliant, unfortunately for my own house.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Teddy, this is Professor McGonagall,’ Hermione explained, ‘she’ll be your headmistress when you go to Hogwarts in a few years.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If I’m still around, that is,’ McGonagall said.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione tutted and smiled at her. ‘Here Professor, take my seat and you can fill Teddy in on what an excellent Quidditch player his Nana was.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione made to stand but suddenly Andromeda’s hand was on her wrist: ‘I’m just a silly old woman getting sentimental at a wedding,’ she said, looking at Hermione with wide, imploring eyes. She leaned away from Teddy and spoke in a low tone so that he wouldn’t hear. ‘I love that boy to the end of the Earth and back. We’re doing fine.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ Hermione said, putting her hand over where Andromeda’s still rested on her arm. ‘I know.’</p><p> </p><p>The intensity of Andromeda’s gaze lasted a moment longer and then she released Hermione. McGonagall looked briefly between the two of them but said nothing and then took Hermione’s seat as she finally vacated it.</p><p> </p><p>With the briefest of glances back at Andromeda, who was now, as if to prove her point, engaged in more animated conversation with Teddy and McGonagall, Hermione moved across the lawn in search of something a little stronger than elderflower cordial and someone more companionable who might offset her sudden unease.</p><p> </p><p>She soon found Ron, Talia, Neville, Luna, and some of the others from school loitering by the drinks table, and joined their huddle.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hey, ‘ermione,’ Ron mumbled her, a mouth full of sausage roll, ‘where’s your mysterious plus one, eh?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, not this again, Ron!’ she sighed, moving swiftly past him to fill up a glass with red wine.</p><p> </p><p>‘But Ginny said-’</p><p> </p><p>‘She’s having you on,’ Hermione assured him, taking big mouthfuls of the wine until the glass was half-empty and then refilling it again. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure why you care.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Good point,’ Talia muttered under her breath.</p><p> </p><p>Ron glanced at her, but chose to ignore the comment. ‘Even Neville and Luna invited plus ones to the evening do,’ he said, looking sceptically at his other friends.</p><p> </p><p>‘What do you mean “<em>even</em>,”’ Neville grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>‘Tactful as ever, Ron!’ Hermione chastised him before turning her attention to Neville. ‘Who’s your plus one?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Remember Hannah Abbott?’ he asked, his cheeks turning pink. ‘We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s great, Neville,’ she reassured him, squeezing his arm. ‘And, Luna, presumably Rolf is back from India?’</p><p> </p><p>‘For a short while at least,’ Luna replied, dreamily.</p><p> </p><p>‘So, it’s just you, Hermione,’ Ron then said, grinning stupidly at her. Talia nudged him, presumably to either try and make him shut up or remind him of her presence.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sure I’ll get by,’ she said, rolling her eyes at him. Suddenly lying by omission was very easy, perhaps even a little fun. She wondered whether she ought to be concerned that some of Severus’s Slytherin traits were clearly rubbing off on her.</p><p> </p><p>As talk to turned to other things, to future weddings, to who might get married next, Hermione found her mind wandering and she absently reached into her bag to see if there were any messages from Monica. She rummaged a little but her hand did not fall upon her phone. She peered inside the bag but it quite clearly wasn’t there. Even still, she emptied it out onto the nearby table just to be sure. Her wand, lipstick, blusher and perfume were all accounted for, but her phone was most certainly absent.</p><p> </p><p>‘Everything alright?’ Luna asked, whilst the rest of the chatter went on around them.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve lost my phone,’ Hermione replied, a little stricken. There hadn’t been any incidents with Wendell recently which meant he was either enjoying a particularly prolonged period of calm, or he was due to blow. The thought of Monica being unable to contact her should it be the latter didn’t bear thinking about.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione tried to think when she’d last had it; definitely at the ceremony, when she had popped the battery back in after the accident in Ginny’s bedroom and put it on vibrate, and definitely before she’d spoken to Andromeda as she’d checked it for texts then as well.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ooh, maybe this will give us our answer,’ Talia then said, interrupting Hermione’s search.</p><p> </p><p>‘Answer to what?’ Hermione asked, spinning around to see Ginny making her way across the lawn and Molly steering all the younger, unmarried women into a group for Ginny to throw her bouquet to.</p><p> </p><p>‘To who will get married next. Come on.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, no, I-’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione, you too,’ Molly then called to her, and she was given no choice in the matter. She scooped her belongings back into her bag and joined the group of giddy women in the centre of the lawn.</p><p> </p><p>Ginny turned her back to them. ‘Ready?’ she yelled, ‘three, two, one…’ And with that she launched the bouquet over her head and it arced through the air, thankfully, as far as Hermione was concerned, landing in the hands of some young Weasley cousin, who blushed furiously as the crowd cheered and clapped.</p><p> </p><p>With that out of the way, Hermione dedicated some more time to looking for her phone, but was keen for it not to dominate the rest of the day, so just let a few people know she was looking for it, should they see it. ‘It’ll turn up,’ Ron later assured her, ‘it’s not like anyone here is going to know what to do with a <em>mobily-fon</em>… although you might want to hope it isn’t my dad who finds it, he probably won’t want to give it you back.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione?’ McGonagall said, approaching her from across the lawn a short while later. She wore a strange, uneasy expression. ‘Is this what you’ve been looking for?’ She held out Hermione’s mobile phone to her. ‘It had fallen down the side of the cushions on the wicker chair by Andromeda,’ she said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ Hermione replied, taking back her phone, ‘thank you. My bag keeps…’ She trailed off when she saw McGonagall still observing her with a frown. Then the phone vibrated in her hand and she looked down to see the text on the illuminated screen: “Two messages received from Severus.” It was abundantly clear that McGonagall had seen the first message come through, had seen Severus’s name spelled out, plain and simple. Hermione held her breath, staring down at the phone for a few moments longer before raising her eyes back to meet McGonagall’s. The older woman opened her mouth to speak but Hermione was faster. ‘I really must go and check on Ginny,’ she lied, before brushing past the Headmistress and making her way back inside The Burrow.</p><p> </p><p>She found the bathroom thankfully empty and, locking the door behind her, sat down on the closed toilet seat, head in her hands, breathing hard. ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath. She checked the messages from Severus; they were just asking how she was, if she was having a good time. She didn’t trust herself to reply for the moment.</p><p> </p><p>Outside the window she could hear the sound of laughter and chatter amongst the guests, it seemed unfathomable that just a moment ago she had been out there enjoying herself amongst them. Suddenly they seemed much further away, and the fullness and contentment Hermione had been feeling dissipated, leaving her with a cold, empty sensation in her chest.</p><p> </p><p>She moved to the sink and splashed water in her face. Then, gripping the edge of the basin, she breathed slowly, the way she had always done before important exams, as she tried to rationalise with herself. She would just speak to McGonagall, implore her not to say anything. McGonagall would be respectful; she had never been anything but supportive of Hermione, nor anything but supportive of Severus, now Hermione came to think of it. She would understand and she would let the matter lie. But the letters niggled at Hermione; the letters Severus hadn’t opened for years and then had opened all in one go. Hermione didn’t know what any of that meant, not to Severus and certainly not to McGonagall.</p><p> </p><p>Once her head had stopped spinning, and her make-up had been reapplied, she steeled herself and went back out into the party.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A time later the sun had set, offering some reprieve from the heat of the day, and the lanterns in the overhanging branches had illuminated, casting warms spots of light on the grass below. Though a few stragglers remained on the lawn, most of the wedding party had retreated into the marquee to enjoy the evening celebrations. Hermione had danced with Arthur and Neville and with a few more drinks in her had been able to enjoy her evening, but as the night wore on, and she began to sober a little, her thoughts returned to Severus and she was overcome by the sudden desire to hear his voice. Though she had made some effort to dismiss this, she currently stood alone on the patio with her finger hovering over the green call button on her phone as she wondered whether ringing him was the right thing to do. Cursing her own lack of resolve, she pressed it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello,’ he grunted, just as she’d been sure it was about the go to voicemail. She smiled as she imagined him scurrying around number 7 looking for his phone, the new one he'd bought after breaking the other, as he’d heard it ring; he rarely kept it on his person despite her telling him that was the very meaning of “mobile.”</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi,’ she replied, softly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you OK?’ he said, from down the other end of the line. She could tell by his tone he was already suspicious. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to call.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know, I just… wanted to talk to you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘OK.’</p><p> </p><p>‘W-what have you been up to?’ she asked, feebly, knowing he would see right through it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not much – Hermione, has something happened?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>She hesitated. ‘No,’ she said, then, managing to muster something more affirmative, ‘no,’ she repeated. ‘I just missed you, is all.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah? I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s been an emotional day.’</p><p> </p><p>‘The wedding has?’ he scoffed. ‘Don’t be getting any ideas, will you?’</p><p> </p><p>She finally managed a small laugh, albeit a somewhat hollow one. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ she replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘Go enjoy yourself,’ he urged.</p><p> </p><p>‘OK.’</p><p> </p><p>‘OK. See you tomorrow.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah. Bye.’</p><p> </p><p>She pressed the end call button and held the phone to her chest, sighing as she looked back out over the garden. Hearing his voice had eased some of her tension, despite her knowing that the inevitable was merely postponed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Was that him?’ a familiar Scottish burr sounded from behind her, startling her. Hermione looked around to find McGonagall approaching her, looking pale in the moonlight.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know what you think you know,’ Hermione said, her tone harsher than she would have liked it to be.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall came to stand beside her, looking out over the lawn and up at the wide moon. ‘I don’t <em>know</em> anything,’ she said. Hermione felt McGonagall scrutinising her but kept her gaze fixed on the sky. ‘I especially don’t know how those Muggle contraptions work… But what I <em>suspect</em> is that you have some way of communicating with Severus Snape.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione shook her head and bit back panicked tears. ‘I can’t talk about it,’ she protested, weakly.</p><p> </p><p>‘How?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ Hermione insisted. ‘I can’t. He doesn’t…’ she trailed off, biting her bottom lip, knowing if she continues down that line she won’t be able to stop, will say too much. ‘I won’t,’ she concludes, with renewed determination. Though her heart is heavy with compassion for her old teacher, it is clear in that moment what Severus has come to mean to her and she suddenly knows that it will be time, soon, to share the truth about her parents with him. She closed her mind to the intrusive thoughts that she might lose him over her indiscretion with her phone today.</p><p> </p><p>‘That seems rather selfish,’ McGonagall then sharply remarked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Excuse me?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ McGonagall sighed, shaking her head and closing her eyes for a moment. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just… I write to him. Often, actually, but he doesn’t reply.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know,’ Hermione replied, her voice small. ‘But he’s read them, I promise. I can’t pretend I know how his mind works, but I think he appreciates them.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If I know him at all I suspect he would have told me to stop if he wanted me to,’ McGonagall replied, managing a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ Hermione chuckled, ‘I suspect he would have.’</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall issued a muted sigh. ‘Can you at least tell me if he’s happy?’ she asked, and when Hermione finally looked at her, her expression was both imploring and deeply sad.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione inhaled shakily and hesitantly nodded. ‘I… I <em>think</em> he is, yes,’ she responded at length.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ came McGonagall’s reply, ‘that’s really all I needed to know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You won’t say anything to… well, to anyone, will you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not if that is Severus’s wish.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then thank <em>you</em>, Professor,’ Hermione said.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall nodded once in acknowledgement, then a sudden eruption of fireworks from the bottom of the garden startled them both, illuminating their faces in flashes of greens, blues, and golds. ‘It’s nice to have something to celebrate, isn’t it?’ the older witch then asked, watching the burning glitter dissipate in the air.</p><p> </p><p>‘It is,’ Hermione agreed, as McGonagall squeezed her hand.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione Apparated back to Cokeworth the next morning with a ferocious desire to just <em>be</em> with Severus; she wanted a day of doing mundane things, reading together, listening to his complaining about nothing in particular, perhaps a walk in the park. She wanted him to hold her hand, press gentle kisses to her mouth, and stroke her hair.</p><p> </p><p>When she opened the door to number 7 he was stood, framed by the kitchen door, at the end of the hallway. They met each other’s gaze and then she flung herself into his arms. He seemed in no hurry to relinquish his hold and so she remained like that for a long time.</p><p> </p><p>‘I missed you too,’ he said, after a while, ‘I meant to say that yesterday, on the phone, but… well, I didn’t, did I?’</p><p> </p><p>‘It doesn’t matter,’ she chuckled into his chest, ‘I knew it anyway.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Good,’ he sighed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, do you think I’m selfish?’ she asked. McGonagall’s words had plagued her since last night, making her wonder whether there wasn’t some truth to them, if not in her keeping Severus’s secret, then in other aspects of her life, like not having told him about her parents yet. <em>Yet</em>, she reminded herself.</p><p> </p><p>‘What? Where’s that come from?’ he asked. He pulled away from her and observed her with a frown, stroking a curl of hair away from her face.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nowhere,’ she replied. ‘I’m just being silly.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he muttered, seemingly agreeing, then, ‘there’s post for you,’ he said, ‘with St. Mungo’s and King Arthur’s seals on it.’ He handed her two thick, quality envelopes and sat down at the kitchen table watching her expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ she said, tearing the first of them open. She read it through twice. ‘OK. I have an interview at King Arthur’s.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course you do. And?’ he said, nodding in the direction of the second envelope.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione opened that too and, like the first, read it through twice. ‘No,’ she said, solemnly, ‘I haven’t been shortlisted for interview. Not enough experience.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>What</em>?’ he said, incredulously, snatching the letter from her. She watched him read it, his brow furrowed, whilst a wide smile split her features. There was something quite endearing about his ire on her behalf. ‘I can’t believe – <em>what</em> are you smiling about?’</p><p> </p><p>She moved behind him and slid her hands from his shoulder, down his chest, and rested them on his stomach. ‘It doesn’t matter about St. Mungo’s,’ she said, softly, laying her chin on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>‘But-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-No. Everything happens for a reason. King Arthur’s is a fine hospital, lots of research opportunities, remember?’ and as Hermione was saying it, she found that it was true. ‘I’ll ace the interview, and I’ll get the job,’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, you will,’ he affirmed, turning his head to plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘What do you want to do today?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Honestly, not much,’ she replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘Bit boring, but we could do with doing a big shop.’</p><p> </p><p>She laughed and returned the peck on his cheek. ‘That actually sounds perfect.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. She Sells Seashells</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He stood on the shoreline, the cool North Sea lapping at his ankles.</p><p> </p><p>He was brought to mind of the last time he had seen this sea; then it had been steel grey, crashing, seething. He had stood on a craggy cliff-top, further up the coast than here, braced against the biting wind and sheets of lashing rain that cut right through his thin prisoner garb. It had been him and two other nameless, faceless figures, abandoned there by the guards, their sentences at an end. The others had trudged off down the path towards the nearest town, but he had hesitated for he had nowhere to go. It had been almost subconscious, as though she was calling to him, the way he had Apparated to Cokeworth, longing for his mother’s embrace, childlike. Of course, he had found her gone and he was still alone.</p><p> </p><p>Now the sea was a deep blue, its gentle waves rolling against the sand, mesmeric. It was hot and bright, and he shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked out to the horizon. Above head, seagulls cawed, bickering with one another over a chip stolen from a tourist’s supper. He had been persuaded to take off his trainers, roll up his jeans, ‘let’s just dip our toes in,’ she’d said. They’d stood together at the water’s edge for a time, holding hands and her head rested on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Then her damnable phone had rung and she’d moved away, up to where the sand was dry, to answer it. He was pretending he wasn’t trying to listen to her conversation, but snatches of it drifted to him on the breeze: ‘<em>I can’t… put him on, let me speak to him… calm down...</em>’ It made no sense but her tone was fretful, panicked, like it had been that first time she’d come to Spinner’s End and her phone ringing had disturbed their conversation. She had left in a hurry that day, he recalled. He watched her pacing for a moment, gesticulating, then turned his attention back to the sea.</p><p> </p><p>He liked to close his eyes and listen to the <em>hush-hush</em> of it. To his left a dad and his little boy splash in the shallows, laughing; he watched them for a moment, like he used to watch families in Cokeworth, wondering, <em>what if? </em>To his right, in the distance, the cliffs rise beyond the red-roofed town, and the ruins of an old abbey sit atop them, splendiferous as it is silhouetted against the sky.</p><p> </p><p>There are footsteps through the water and she is beside him again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Everything OK?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, yes… fine,’ she said. He isn’t sure he believes her, considers pressing her for more, when she speaks again. ‘It was just my mum. My dad’s had an accident, but he’s fine.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sure?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sure. Come on, let’s do those steps,’ she spoke again, taking his hand. She has a new, frenetic energy about her since the phone call and she seems to need to walk it off.</p><p> </p><p>They had arrived yesterday, by train; she had insisted that was how a proper British holiday should begin*. She’d packed them egg and cress sandwiches, wrapped in tin foil. A Mars Bar for him and a sugar quill for her. ‘Quavers or Wotsits?’ she’d asked, holding up two packets of crisps, and they’d shared a flask of tea as they sped past rolling green fields, fat rain drops hammering the carriage windows.</p><p> </p><p>‘She sells seashells by the sea shore,’ she said slowly, annunciating every syllable. Then, picking up her pace, ‘she shells she-sells… oh!’ she laughed. He laughed too, felt light. He tried it himself – <em>‘she sells seashells by the sea shore’</em> - and was too good at it. She grinned at him, her eyes ablaze, before moving them on to ‘eye spy.’ He was too good at that as well, she protested after a few attempts, which he’d guessed almost immediately; ‘maybe you shouldn’t play ‘eye spy’ with someone who was once a real spy,’ he had teased.</p><p> </p><p>She rolled her eyes at him and fell instead to pouring over an English Heritage leaflet she’d found on a rack at the train station; it showed the ruins of the abbey on the cliff, at sunset, noble and imposing. ‘It says here that in Bram Stoker’s <em>Dracula</em>, Count Dracula runs, in dog form, up the 199 steps from the town to the graveyard near the abbey,’** she told him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fascinating,’ he droned. ‘Vampires are so nuanced, why must Muggles make such a mockery of magical creatures?’***</p><p> </p><p>‘They fear what they do not understand,’ she said, absently, not looking up from the leaflet. ‘Ooh, we can walk the steps ourselves.’</p><p> </p><p>‘All 199 of them?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You said holidays were <em>fun</em>,’ he grumbled, which elicited another eye roll from her. He smirked.</p><p> </p><p>A time later, he observed her over the top of his newspaper. They’d been reading in silence, while she ran her foot up and down his shin, but now she was sat looking out of the window, deep in thought, a little crease between her brows. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, forcing herself to smile at him before returning to her book. He watches her for a moment longer before he’s satisfied, then returns to his own tome.</p><p> </p><p>The rain had seemed a poor omen, but as the sea came into sight, the sun had burst through the cloud cover in radiant beams, and it had stayed like that, so far.</p><p> </p><p>Indeed, before the first day was out, his nose was burnt and blistered, and she had straddled his waist, later that evening, applying a soothing tincture that smelled like aloe vera, then dropped one tender kiss right on its tip. He had tilted his head up and captured her lips, his hands on her hips, pulling her closer to him. Their tongues twist together - <em>‘she sells seashells…’ </em>– and they are both panting when she sits back and unbuckles his belt…</p><p> </p><p>Now they sit on the edge of a concrete jetty, after the phone call they’re both pretending didn’t happen, dusting the sand off their feet and pulling their socks and shoes back on, before she takes his hand again and leads him through the labyrinth of cobbled streets. The place is teaming with tourists but it could well be just the two of them for all he notices; she sets a brisk pace, it’s almost like she skips, pulling him along behind her, slowing only when they reach the end of a row of odd little trinket shops and find themselves at the foot of the East Cliff, the famed steps rising sharply above them.</p><p> </p><p>They take their time, stopping frequently to admire the view behind them, the vast bay, the many boats, the wide sea, but still his muscles ache and he gasps for breath as they rise****. He tries to conceal it from her and, though she says nothing, he suspects he is unsuccessful in this. She moves ahead of him, waits for him, then moves ahead again. At the top, she leads him along a narrow path. ‘Worth it, you see,’ she says, gesturing to the headlands that meander out of sight in the far distance. They amble through the graveyard they’ve emerged into, moving amidst headstones with their inscriptions eroded by centuries of wild sea winds. He catches his breath and looks out again at the view; it is quite spectacular, he must admit.</p><p> </p><p>It’s cooler on the clifftop and he lends her his jacket; he loves to perform these little acts of service for her. She seems calmer now, as the wind plucks at her curls and chaps her cheeks, than she had on the beach. He squeezes her hand, she looks at him, smiles, and squeezes his back. ‘Come on,’ she urges him, full of enthusiasm, and leads him onwards to the abbey. They wonder around the ruins, see how nature has reclaimed it, feel the weight of its history.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They are sat on a bench, later that evening, looking out over the docks while they eat fish and chips out of polystyrene trays with wooden, two-pronged forks. The sky is darkening as the sun dips behind the abbey and he notices that she has that sad, wistful look on her face again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you OK?’ he asks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, fine, yeah… Do you ever smell something, or taste something, hear a song, even, and you’re just transported back to another time and place?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he agrees.</p><p> </p><p>‘The smell of fish and chips always reminds me of Thursday nights before I started at Hogwarts. My mum would play badminton with her friend and my dad would buy the two of us, him and me, a fish supper. He’d tell my mum, when she got home, that we’d had salad and jacket potatoes, tapping the side of his nose like we were co-conspirators,’ she chuckled warmly, then frowned, ‘although it seems quite probable that my mum knew exactly what was going on, now I come to think of it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘They’re fickle things, memories,’ he replied, dipping a chip in his mushy peas before devouring it*****.</p><p> </p><p>‘What do you mean?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just that…’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘…you can experience something with someone, for example, and then find out later that you remember it completely differently, that it meant something else to them, and then it’s like that memory is tarnished, or has been tampered with. It takes on new hues. Sometimes we remember things better than they were. More often bad things are so much easier to remember than good things. Some things we just misremember entirely. Memories are untrustworthy, fickle…’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s a rather cynical outlook.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs, carries on eating his food; why do fish and chips taste better at the seaside?</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t you love that sudden wave of nostalgia you sometimes get, like a warm hug on a cold day.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What would I have to feel nostalgic about?’ he grunted.</p><p> </p><p>She seemed to consider this. ‘What about this holiday? How will you look back on this in years to come?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Depends, doesn’t it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘On what?’</p><p> </p><p>‘On whatever happens… <em>after</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Even if we were to break up tomorrow, I could look back on this weekend as one of happiest of my life,’ she replied, simply.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah?’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Yes</em>,’ she says, definitively.</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s something Dumbledore used to say: <em>it does not do to dwell on dreams</em>. I spend half my time trying to <em>not</em> think about the past; it… well… it hurts.’ Looking down, he has finished eating and finds that he has stabbed a number of puncture holes into the polystyrene tray where he’s been bitterly stabbing at it absentmindedly with the fork.</p><p> </p><p>‘And what else did he used to say?’ she asks, smilingly. ‘About how happiness can be found in even the darkest of times? I have painful memories too, you know? They almost consumed me, at one time, right after the war, but then I <em>turned on the light</em>…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just like that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, there was nothing easy about it. I’d sit at your bedside on the hospital wing, telling you about how bleak it had all seemed when we were hunting for the horcruxes, and suddenly I would be reminded of the strength of my friendships, of what we’d endured together. I’d find myself talking about the deaths, only to be reminded of Teddy, of the life that had come from it. I’d look at <em>you</em>, lying there and I would see the good shining out of the darkness. Memories are not so simple as good or bad. They’re not <em>fickle</em>, they’re <em>complicated</em>, and they only get more-so with time and perspective. There is an irony in the fact that it was you who made me see these things and now you cannot see them yourself.’</p><p> </p><p>‘In my defence, I <em>was</em> unconscious.’</p><p> </p><p>She laughed at that. ‘So you were. But still, you talk of my voice bringing you back from the brink, well, your silence did the same for me,’ she said. The she took his hand and turned to him, smiling a small, hopeful kind of smile. ‘And what of the future? Do you think of that?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He met her gaze, saw something sparkling in the depth of her brown eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he concedes, after a time, ‘sometimes I think about the future.’ And he can’t help but smile himself, wondering if you can be nostalgic for things not yet come to pass, then frowning, believing none of it ever will.</p><p> </p><p>She beamed at him now and either that is enough for her, has satisfied her curiosity, or she senses his reluctance to discuss those thoughts out loud as, instead of pressing for more, she says, ‘time for the pub, I think.'</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They have rented a crooked little cottage; not quite with a sea view, though if you pressed your face up to the bathroom window and looked to the right, you could just make it out in the distance.</p><p> </p><p>The remainder of their long-weekend is spent walking along the fronts, by the rainbow beach huts; at the arcade, where he won a glittery, heart-shaped keyring on the 2p machines, presenting it to her with bashful grin, watching almost possessively as she attached it to her key for number 7; meandering through the streets of shops, looking at jewellery set with black jet stone.</p><p> </p><p>They awake, as their final morning dawns, with a sense of reluctance. Here, they could pretend, even if only for a moment, that there are no secrets. But today they must return to Cokeworth and to their normality. Summer is in its dying days and soon she will receive her exam results, will accept a job at King Arthur’s, will make her final decision about where she’ll live… And he will be left with nothing <em>but</em> memories of these heady months, whether he likes it or not. Whatever happens, nothing will ever be the same.</p><p> </p><p>As they lay in bed, both not wanting to be the first to disturb this dreamy cocoon they’re in, he takes her in his arms and he speaks:</p><p> </p><p>‘When I look back on this weekend, whatever happens <em>after</em>, I don’t think I’ll believe it really happened,’ he says. ‘That’s how good it has been.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I wish you could believe that you deserved it,’ she replies, drawing him into a deep, lingering kiss.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She stands at the kitchen counter with her back to him; she is supposed to be making tea but the kettle has flicked off and she’s not moved. She is staring out of the window, her mind clearly elsewhere.</p><p> </p><p>It is later that same morning and they’ve breakfasted together, taking their time over it, savouring it, as though that will make time pass more slowly, will delay their train home.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione?’ he begins, tentatively.</p><p> </p><p>She starts. ‘Oh…’ she said, picking up the kettle and filling the teapot. She finally brings it over to the little kitchen table and drops into the chair opposite him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you OK?’ he asks,</p><p> </p><p>‘You’ve been asking me that all weekend,’ she responds, sounding annoyed, which he can’t understand.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm.’ Their knees knock under the table and she shifts her legs, in a move that leaves him stung, so they’re not touching. ‘Maybe because you seem anything but,’ he snips.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do I?’ she asks, pouring the tea into their cups and adding milk. He only need raise an eyebrow at that; she knows as well as he does that it is the truth. ‘I’m fine. <em>Really</em>,’ she insists. Notably, she refuses to meet his gaze, which he knows by now is her tell, as she pushes one of the cups over to him.</p><p> </p><p>He watches her for a moment longer; there is something different. ‘No, tell me,’ he practically demands.</p><p> </p><p>She looks at him then, her eyes snapping up with a flash of anger in them, but when she speaks it is gone, replaced by trepidation: ‘I had hoped to wait until we got home, until after the trip. I didn’t want anything to ruin it,’ she stammers. He remains silent, expectant, but braced against whatever blow she is about to deliver. She chews her bottom lip, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She inhales. ‘Professor McGonagall…’ she pauses, closes her eyes. ‘She knows about us… well, not about <em>us</em>, exactly, but…’</p><p> </p><p>‘But what?’ he asks, through gritted teeth. He feels an unbridled fury bubbling within himself, worries what will come out if he speaks too much.</p><p> </p><p>‘She knows we’re… in communication.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh my God.’ And he’s on his feet, hands in his hair, despairingly, pacing about the tiny kitchen, wishing there was somewhere else he could go, but the house is miniscule. Even then, he doesn’t think anywhere would be far enough way right now. ‘I ask one fucking thing of you!’ he snarled. ‘One fucking thing and you can’t even do that!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sev-’ She pauses because he’s picked up a mug and is about the throw it at the wall when he seems to realise what he’s doing, or perhaps just that they’re in the rented cottage; still, he places it back on the counter top with such ferocity the handle breaks off anyway. ‘It was an accident,’ she insists, blocking his exit from the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>‘Move,’ he grunts, halting before her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not until you’ve heard me out. I didn’t do this on purpose.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Whether you did it on purpose or not, it is done.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, but-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Everything you ask of me and you can’t do this <em>one fucking thing</em> for me!’ He doesn’t shout; indeed, he seems more hurt than angry, but his voice is so terse it is almost worse.</p><p> </p><p>‘I lost my phone at the wedding, McGonagall found it and saw that you’d messaged me,’ she explains, her tone frantic and imploring. She holds a hand out in front of herself, almost touching his chest, but not quite. ‘I shouldn’t have let it happen, I got complacent, should have been more careful, but… but she’s promised! She’s not going to say anything to anyone.’</p><p> </p><p>‘The same way <em>you</em> promised?’ he asked, shaking his head in disgust.</p><p> </p><p>She ignores him. ‘I just wanted you to enjoy the holiday.’</p><p> </p><p>‘The whole thing’s been a charade.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. We’ve had a nice time,’ she says, as though she’s trying to <em>convince</em> him of the truth of it, not <em>remind</em> him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just move.’</p><p> </p><p>He takes a step towards her, bears down on her, looming, and although she has no fear that he would hurt her, she finally relents; she stands aside and he brushes past her, making his way along the shadowy corridor.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, please,’ she beseeches him, though her voice is soft. He halts at the bottom of the staircase, the white morning sunshine comes through the glass in the cottage’s front door, silhouetting his figure. He turns to her and she observes his profile, half in light, half in darkness.</p><p> </p><p>‘I have to pack,’ is all he says, and he makes his way upstairs.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* This is quite a nostalgic concept; I’m British and have never caught the train to a “staycation” destination; train tickets cost more than plane tickets half the time anyway.</p><p>** It’s not mentioned by name but they are very clearly on holiday in Whitby.</p><p>*** No shade to 'Dracula,' it’s actually excellent.</p><p>**** Anyone who has walked up these steps can probably empathise with Severus, to be fair.</p><p>***** ‘They’re Fickle Things, Memories’ was actually the working title for this fic; I changed it for the obvious reason that it is a stupid title for a story, but memory/memories were always intended to be a central theme.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. By the Barley Field</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione sits in what she considers to be <em>his</em> armchair in the living room at Spinner’s End. Her elbows are rested on her knees and she wrings her hands, rocking back and forth slightly in her agitation. On the table beside her, her phone vibrates incessantly, dancing across the polished wooden surface, Monica’s number flashing up on the screen. She ignores it.</p><p> </p><p>She has lost track of how late it is, despite the regular reminders of the cuckoo clock, but Severus has been gone for hours. <em>That</em> she does know.</p><p> </p><p>They had journeyed back from the seaside in deafening silence. He had sat across from her, jaw set, glaring out of the carriage window. She had been optimistic at first, or perhaps naïve, trying to make small talk, cajole him in the way she had become quite adept, but he had remained stony-faced and taciturn. She thought she might have preferred anger; she would have understood anger, at least, would have had something to work with. But instead he just seems sad, bereft almost.</p><p> </p><p>Arriving back in Cokeworth, they had trudged back from the train station, Severus taking long strides and moving ahead of her. He had his head in the fridge when she finally walked through the front door.</p><p> </p><p>‘No milk,’ he grumbled, pulling his jacket back on.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where are you going?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Shop,’ he grunted. And then he was gone, the door slamming closed again behind him.</p><p> </p><p>She had stood staring at it for a time; part of her wanted to drag him back here, make him listen to her, but something more rational told her to let him be, that he’d come around in his own time. The walk to and from the shop isn’t all that far, he shouldn’t be long. She unpacks their clothes, puts the washing machine on, takes a shower, hangs the clothes up to dry in the yard, makes a cup of tea, settles down with her book, can’t concentrate. She loses track of time but is acutely aware he hasn’t returned. She rings his phone, sighing at the predictability of him having turned it off.</p><p> </p><p>His words echo around her head: ‘<em>I ask one fucking thing of you… One fucking thing and you can’t even do that… </em><em>Everything you ask of me and you can’t do this one fucking thing for me!</em>’ They leave no doubt as to his sense of betrayal. He is right, so right. She just wants to tell him as much, and is angry at his childish refusal to allow her that.</p><p> </p><p>The phone started vibrating across the side table again, startling Hermione out of her mulling. A quick glance showed that it was Monica, not Severus, calling. She picked it up with a sigh. She had ignored it for too long. ‘Hello,’ she said, irritably. ‘Oh my God! OK… wait where you are, I’ll be right there…’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus had bought cigarettes from the corner shop, not milk. It had been perhaps a week since his last smoke, and before that his habit had become increasingly sporadic; he <em>had</em> wanted to try for her. He lit up as soon as he was back outside, taking a deep drag that burnt his throat and choked his lungs, though he quickly fell back into the rhythm of it. It felt illicit, like the first time he’d tried; knowing Hermione would be furious with him, just as he’d known at twelve that his parents would be furious, only made it more exciting.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he had intended to go straight back home, perhaps he had always planned on going to the marshes, but regardless, his feet carry him into the alley behind the shop and he has quickly Apparated into enveloping lush greenness. He turned off his phone. It was warmer here, and he shed his jacket, embraced the gentle heat of the sun on his arms and face.</p><p> </p><p>He walked, paying no attention to where he went. Stopped to watch two water voles frolic in the undergrowth. Walked. Stopped to pick blackberries, which he popped straight in his mouth. Walked. Stopped to rest on a damp tussock and chew his fingernails. Walked. Stopped to gaze at his reflection in a pool of tranquil water. Walked. Stopped and shielded his eyes against the brightness of the sun as a kingfisher swooped low over the reeds beside him on the path. Walked.</p><p> </p><p>A full moon rose amidst a blanket of stars, reflecting in the inky waters and spilling its ghostly white light over everything. It was bright enough to see the path ahead and so Severus traipsed onwards, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. It was the early hours when he conceded to exhaustion, Apparating back to Cokeworth and making his way to Spinner’s End. The same moon illuminated the street, but the effect was quite different; here it was like stepping through some grim dream.</p><p> </p><p>Number 7 was dark and silent when he opened the door. There was a chill in the air, despite the heat of the night, and he knew instantly she was gone. The scent of her perfume lingered in the stillness of the air though, and some of her belongings were still scattered about the place. He tried not to hope that this meant her absence was temporary. Moving into the kitchen, in search of stiff nightcap, he found a note in her hand on the table:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Gone to my parents’ – dad unwell. Not sure when I’ll be back. Turn your phone on! H.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>None of her ridiculous ‘x’ kisses at the end, he notes, and her frustration with him is palpable in every word. He screws up the missive and throws it in the bin, then turns on his phone: two missed calls. He makes derisive sound then pulls down a tumbler from a cupboard and fills it halfway with whiskey. He downs it in one and goes to bed, very much alone.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘Why are you knocking?’</p><p> </p><p>It was early evening and the knock, <em>her</em> knock, had disturbed Severus’s dosing by the fire. Hermione had been gone for three days but now here she is, knocking on the front door of Spinner’s End like she hasn’t lived there for the past two months, like she hasn’t just entered, unbidden, for the past six. He gave her an appraising glance; she is visibly exhausted, hair wild, face puffy, shoulders slightly slumped.</p><p> </p><p>‘I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome,’ she said, looking up at him through large, sad eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘We’re only arguing,’ he murmured, moving to one side so she could enter.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, is that all it is?’ she asked, dropping her overnight bag at the bottom of the stairs and toeing off her shoes. She looked at him, pointedly: ‘did you get my texts?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, <em>thank you</em> for your replies,’ she said, mordantly, rolling her eyes. She brushed past him, making her way to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and throwing heaped teaspoons of coffee into a mug. She doesn’t offer him one. ‘And my dad’s doing much better, thanks for asking.’ She turns to him, where he is lingering in the hallway, watching her, and cocks an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>He folds his arms. ‘If he was even ill in the first place,’ he replied, scowling, unsure himself why he is being so bitingly nasty.</p><p> </p><p>She opened her mouth to retort and then quickly closed it. He notices her bottom lip tremble, and she bites it to try and make it stop. She sighed instead, and when she eventually found her words, after a long moment, her voice cracked with emotion: ‘I don’t have the energy to argue you with you,’ she said, ‘I’m going to take a bath, try and sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning. Otherwise, I might say something I regret.’</p><p> </p><p>He is pleased that she is back. He hadn’t been convinced that she would be, despite what she said in her texts. But something has shifted between them that feels irrevocable and he can’t shake his feelings of resentment. As she passed him in the narrow hallway he feels compelled to reach out and place a hand on arm, to stop her and make her have this out with him, even though he isn’t sure what he has to say or what he wants to hear. She pauses and looks up at him, but just shakes her head tiredly and makes her way upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you sleep down here?’ she asked. She’s already dressed when she comes into the kitchen late the next morning, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She has bunched her hair on top of her head, the way she does when she can’t be bothered or won’t really be seeing anyone. She looks a little fresher than she had last night, but not much.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not intentionally,’ he lied, stretching his aching back. ‘Fell asleep in the armchair. Kettle just boiled,’ he added. He watched her make herself a coffee, his eyes following her across the room and then back as she fell into the chair opposite him at the table.</p><p> </p><p>They look at one another, apparently both waiting for the other to initiate the uncomfortable, but inevitable, conversation they’re about to have: ‘Hermione,’ he says, at the very moment she says, ‘I can’t stay here.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>What</em>?’ he breathed, in barely more than a whisper. He feels suddenly hollowed out.</p><p> </p><p>‘Firstly,’ she began, ‘I am so, <em>so</em> sorry that you feel I let you down, letting McGonagall find out about us. It was an accident and I am sorry. I’m not sure what else you want me to say.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing. I know, I forgive you,’ he responds, quickly.</p><p> </p><p>‘No, don’t do that,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You’re angry and you have every right to be. It <em>is</em> the only thing you’ve ever asked of me and you <em>give</em> so much, I know you do. I should have tried harder.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It was <em>just</em> an argument,’ he insists, feeling himself becoming frantic, ‘it doesn’t change anything about… about… how I <em>feel</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Me either,’ she implored. ‘I can promise you that.’</p><p> </p><p>He screws his eyes tight shut and presses the heels of hands against them until he can see silver stars. ‘Then why?’ he asks, through gritted teeth, ‘why won’t you stay?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not “won’t,”’ she responds, reaching across the table and gently pulling his hands away from his face. ‘I <em>can’t</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘This is bullshit,’ he spat, yanking his hand, where she still held it, away. ‘This was… working, I thought…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, something has happened, it’s hard to explain… I want to tell you, but-’</p><p> </p><p>‘People in relationships are supposed to <em>trust</em> one another.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t trust me?’ she asked, confused.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. ‘I’ve trusted you with more than I’ve ever trusted anyone before.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… then you think <em>I</em> don’t trust <em>you</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You have secrets,’ he hissed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ she said, putting her mug down on the kitchen table with a heavy thud. ‘Then let me prove you wrong. Let me <em>show</em> you I trust you.’</p><p> </p><p>She got to her feet and moved around the table so she was stood before him, then she held out her hand, palm down, fingers reaching outwards. He hesitated, his gaze rising slowly from her outstretched hand to her imploring features; she bristled with desperation and he felt compelled to take it. He reached out and the moment his fingers brushed hers, they both disappeared with a crack.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They reappear into dazzling brightness. The shock of Apparating without warning renders Severus temporarily stunned and he stumbles slightly; Hermione grabs his t-shirt to steady him and their eyes meet.</p><p> </p><p>‘Come on,’ she says, softly, tugging him up a dirt track.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where are we?’ he grunted.</p><p> </p><p>‘Withy Copse Farm,’ she states, nodding her head in the direction of a wooden sign, on which those three words are written in chipped paint.</p><p> </p><p>‘Which tells me precisely nothing.’</p><p> </p><p>They walk a little further with nothing but birdsong to break the silence. The fields on either side of them are bountiful, and soon enough a stone house, atop a small hill, surrounded by rolling meadows and woodland, comes into sight. Severus is immediately enthralled by the place. It looks the lid of a biscuit tin his mother used to have. As they get closer he sees that the house is surrounded by disused outhouses and a barn, outside of which is littered with old, rusted farm machinery. Hermione leads him away from that, though, through a little gate into an overgrown garden and along a narrow gravel path towards the old-English-white front door of the farmhouse.</p><p> </p><p>Here she hesitates. ‘Before we go in,’ she starts, speaking quietly whilst looking at her feet, ‘just… tread lightly.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What does tha-’</p><p> </p><p>But she’s already knocking on the door, like she needs to act before she loses her nerve. It swings open a second later and a large man, perhaps a little older than Severus, with friendly brown eyes, is looking back at them, slightly startled. He has the appearance of a man who has lost quite a bit a bit weight, quite rapidly, and his features are drawn. Severus notices that both his hands are bandaged and he holds them carefully in front of himself. There is something familiar about him though, something which Severus cannot immediately place.</p><p> </p><p>Then there is a woman at his side, much smaller in stature, with greying curls, and with Hermione stood between them, it suddenly falls into place; the scene is just like one of those photographs she has propped up in the spare room at Spinner’s End. Her, with her parents. He feels a surge of fury at her for springing this on him, but, as always, curiosity soon wins out.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Hermione,’ the woman says, smiling broadly, ‘we weren’t expecting you back so soon. And a… friend. You never brought a friend before.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Actually, Mon, this is Severus, he’s my boyfriend,’ Hermione replied, quite breezily. She meets Severus’s eye, challenging him, but he finds he has nothing to protest, isn’t even sure he could speak if he tried. ‘And, Severus, this is <em>Monica and Wendell Wilkins</em>,’ she added, annunciating their names very carefully.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’ he croaked, though what he means is <em>who</em>?</p><p> </p><p>‘Boyfriend?’ Wendell said, bruskly. ‘You never mentioned a boyfriend, Hermione?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I just thought it was time for you to meet, finally.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, please… come in, come in,’ Monica said, ‘we were just about to have some lemonade.’</p><p> </p><p>They step back inside the house and Hermione moves to follow them but Severus’s feet are leaden. ‘H-Hermione..?’ he stammers. ‘Who are they?’</p><p> </p><p>She turned back to him. ‘They’re my secret,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll see… you’ll understand soon enough. It’s better – or perhaps just easier – if you spend a little time with them.’ She gestures him closer, takes his hand, and draws him through the doorway.</p><p> </p><p>The inside of the house is complete chaos, they have to step sideways to move down the hallway. The décor is all patterns, from the wallpaper to the upholstery on the settees, the rugs, and the framed cross-stitch on the walls. It gives the impression that the walls are closing in and Severus feels suddenly claustrophobic, choked almost, as they move through the rooms; through French doors at the back of the living room, into an orangery, and then out onto a stone patio with weeds and moss growing through the cracked paving, and views out over the meadow. Monica has soon joined them, a tray of glasses and a jug of lemonade in her hands. She indicates they should sit down on the wrought iron patio furniture.</p><p> </p><p>‘Not there,’ Wendell suddenly says, as Severus pulls out a seat. ‘That’s <em>her</em> seat. I’m saving it for her.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus looked from Wendell to Hermione to Monica and back to Hermione. They have all already taken seats and Severus wonders who else will be joining them. Hermione’s gaze is penetrating but reveals nothing. Severus sits in another of the spare chairs, unsure of what he has done wrong.</p><p> </p><p><em>Tread lightly</em>, he reminds himself.</p><p> </p><p>‘So, tell us, how did you meet?’ Monica asked, pushing a glass of chilled lemonade in Severus’s direction.</p><p> </p><p>It is Hermione who answers, much to Severus’s relief: ‘Severus and I have known each other a very long time,’ she says. <em>Lies by omission</em>, he thinks, smirking internally at how effortlessly she does this now. ‘But, about six months ago, quite by accident, we realised perhaps we’d like to be more than just friends.’ She is looking at <em>him</em>, not Monica, when she speaks, and something passes between them; something which causes him to confront the contentment of the past six months, and the tensions of the last few days, which pale in comparison. He finds himself nodding in agreement with her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Lovely,’ Monica said, grinning.</p><p> </p><p>And so began a deluge, a barrage, a torrent of all the types of questions one might expect parents to ask when their daughter brings home her new boyfriend for the first time:</p><p> </p><p>‘What do you do for fun?’ … ‘err… I forage, a bit, read, hike’ … ‘What about your parents?’ … ‘my dad’s dead, my mum’s not well’ … ‘Oh, sorry… do you have brothers? Sisters?’ … ‘no’ … ‘What’s that accent?’ … ‘Manchester’ … ‘Ooh, a Northerner… Travelled much?’ … ‘no. Hermione and I went to Whitby’ … ‘Severus is such an unusual name’ … ‘tell me about it…’</p><p> </p><p>Yet there is something distinctly amiss. Severus feels like he doesn’t really hear the questions, couldn’t have told anyone how he’d replied. He is distracted by his own confusion, his mind focused on trying to fill in the missing pieces here. He notices it is <em>Monica Wilkins</em> who asks most of the questions, but she is forgetful of the answers and repeats herself; <em>Wendell Wilkins</em> is preoccupied by something, though what it is, isn’t clear. He keeps looking out over the meadow, squinting into the distance, and muttering under his breath: ‘she’s due… she’ll be here soon… where <em>has</em> she gotten to?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus?’ Hermione said and he is disturbed from where he had been staring at Wendell. ‘Mon asked what you do for work.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I… err…’ he paused, glancing at Hermione.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus was a science teacher,’ Hermione said when Severus floundered, almost as though she has these answers rehearsed, and he wonders how long she has been thinking about this moment, preparing for it.</p><p> </p><p>He realises he isn’t saying much and, unfamiliar as he is with such social situations as this, even he is conscious this will seem rude. ‘Erm… Hermione said you were dentists?’</p><p> </p><p>At that, Hermione sat forwards suddenly, wide-eyed and with a slightly stricken expression, looking between her parents. Severus got the impression he hadn’t <em>trod lightly</em>, but again, wasn’t sure what his mistake had been.</p><p> </p><p>Monica and Wendell both, fleetingly, wear expressions of fond remembrance, and then their faces are blank; Monica chuckled softly and said, ‘no, no, we worked in a bank, dear.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ars, scientia, mores,’ Wendell then said. Now everyone turned to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s that?’ Hermione asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Art, science, morality. It’s the motto of the British Dental Association...’</p><p> </p><p>‘Honestly, Wendell, what are you like?’ Monica chided her husband gently. ‘Why would you know that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Really, she should be here by now,’ Wendell replied, ignoring his wife. He seemed to be getting restless, fidgeting in his seat.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione has sat back in her chair, is now carefully avoiding Severus’s eye. A bee buzzes somewhere nearby, though it feels like it’s in his head. He feels ambushed and irritable and can sense a headache coming on. He watched condensation drip down the side of his glass and wanted to press it against his forehead but resists; he takes a large gulp of lemonade instead, the freshness making him feel more alert.</p><p> </p><p>‘I always thought Hermione would be more suited to an older man,’ Monica then said, thoughtfully. ‘I can see men her own age would be too immature for her. She’s an old head on young-’</p><p> </p><p>She was interrupted when, without warning, Wendell slammed his hands down onto the glass table top, causing it, and the items rested on it, to rattle precariously. The volume and suddenness of it is startling and Severus is on his feet before he realises, his heart pounding in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where is she?’ Wendell demands. ‘Where is she, where is she, where is she?’ His tone is accusatory and Severus sees how he looks at Hermione with an expression of pure loathing. Then his hands are in his hair and he seems despairing: ‘Where is she, where is she, where is she?’ He looks about, frantically searching. Hermione moves to his side, offers him comfort. ‘She hasn’t come because of <em>you</em>!’ he spat, and then he pushed her away quite forcefully, causing her to hit her hip on the corner of the table. She winced in pain and retreated to where Monica had shrunk, terrified, to the periphery of the scene.</p><p> </p><p>Wendell takes a step towards them but Severus is quicker. ‘Don’t!’ he shouted, and then he’s stood between Wendell and Hermione. As his and Wendell’s eyes meet, Severus feels a chill down his spine, like he’s walked through a ghost.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where is she, where is she, where is she?’ Wendell whispers it now, over and over.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just… breathe,’ Severus implores him, trying to remember what he’d used to do after an encounter with Potter and Black, trying to remember what he’d used to do, in the early days, when he felt overwhelmed with teaching, and trying to remember what he’d used to do when he’d return from a summons by The Dark Lord or when Dumbledore had asked perhaps too much of him. He demonstrates the slow breathing – in through his nose, out through his mouth – that used to help ground him, bring reality back into focus. ‘Close your eyes for a moment… now, here, open them again, look at the meadow… it’s peaceful… safe… look.’</p><p> </p><p>Wendell blinks in the bright sunshine, his eyes filled with unspilled tears, then Hermione moves towards him and lays her hand on his. ‘Dell?’ she says, softly, and he looks at her again, his face now filled with warmth and devotion. He nods slowly, acknowledging her, the looks around at Monica, and finally, Severus. ‘It’s OK, we’re here,’ Hermione sooths.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t think she’ll be coming today,’ Wendell then said, shakily. ‘No. But never mind. <em>You’re</em> here and you do so remind me of her.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ Monica adds, coming forwards and stroking her husband’s hair back flat where he had tussled it. ‘Our Hermione,’ she adds, managing a feeble smile.</p><p> </p><p>Severus tears his gaze away from Monica comforting Wendell and looks again at Hermione. She looks desperately sad, but there is something else in her eyes too, some sparkle of resolve, like she has come to a conclusion.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A short time later and Hermione and Monica have gone inside to prepare a late lunch, while Severus and a weary Wendell are sat back on the patio chairs. They chat quite amiably but Severus finds himself casting furtive glances in the older man’s direction from time to time, looking for signs that he might be about to erupt; it’s the same horrid sense of anticipation he’d used to have whenever his own father was around.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t say much do you?’ Wendell said, suspiciously.</p><p> </p><p>‘I suppose not,’ Severus agreed.</p><p> </p><p>‘But you listen.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus looked over at him, intrigued by this assessment. ‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Probably for the best. Hermione’s a talker! You have to balance each other out. It’s the same with Monica and I.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Who’s the talker and who’s the listener?’ Severus asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m the talker, she’s the listener. But when you’ve been married for thirty years the listener can tell the talker to shut up, which she often does. You won’t be at that stage with Hermione yet.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Definitely not,’ Severus replied, thinking about the sound of Hermione’s voice fluttering and shimmying over the words she says. He doesn’t think he could ever tell her to shut up.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s almost harvest time,’ Wendell continues, moving into a monologue about the farm. ‘The crops are planted sequentially from year to year… helps optimise soil nutrients… minimises pest and weed pressure… found out about it the hard way… completely fallow when we arrived…’</p><p> </p><p>Though Severus isn’t really listening; instead he is playing the scene from earlier over and over in his mind. Wendell looking for someone, someone Hermione reminds him of. Hermione, his daughter, who he does not seem to recognise as his daughter and who he is both angry with and full of love for. A bank worker who knows the motto of the British Dentist Association off by heart, and an awful lot about farming… And Monica, a simple, timid woman, who seems somewhat absent; a woman like that could not have raised a daughter like Hermione, so full of courage and assertiveness. Her father who she calls <em>Dell</em>, and her mother who she calls <em>Mon</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘Dell, Mon says can you go help her with the meat?’ Hermione says, coming back out onto the patio.</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course.’ He gets up and moves across the patio, stopping as he passes Hermione to stroke her cheek and smile fondly. She brings her own hand up to meet Dell’s and squeezes it reassuringly.</p><p> </p><p>Severus looked back out over the meadow as she came behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging him. He shivers under her touch, not entirely pleasurably. He realises how much he has missed her over the past few days, though he still prickles with anger when he remembers her saying she won’t – or <em>can’t</em> - stay at Spinner’s End with him; will not or cannot, it makes no difference, the outcome is the same. There is also a lingering sense of betrayal, that she doesn’t trust him, and whatever she had hoped to achieve by bringing him here hasn’t done anything to assuage that. Not yet, anyway, not while he still doesn’t understand.</p><p> </p><p>‘What were you two talking about?’ Hermione asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Err… crop rotation, I think,’ Severus replied with a frown.</p><p> </p><p>‘Interesting.’</p><p> </p><p>‘An interesting conversation to be having with a bank worker, certainly.’ Her hands still as he turns his head to look up at her questioningly. ‘I still don’t understand,’ he said. ‘They’re you’re parents, yes? But… they’re not anything like you described your parents to be.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then you seem to understand perfectly,’ she replied, wistfully, ‘that’s precisely it; they are my parents, and yet, they are not. You were absolutely brilliant with Dell earlier, by the way. Thank you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘He hurt you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just an accident.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Didn’t look like it… Hermione, what’s happened here?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Dinner’s ready!’ Monica called, stepping back out onto the patio carrying a platter of chicken and bowl of salad. ‘Wendell’s bringing the rest.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione kissed the top of Severus’s head; a gesture which said ‘<em>later</em>,’ which said ‘<em>soon</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione watched Severus through the kitchen window; he moved away through the meadow, waving a stick in his hand and beheading flowers as he passed, like a sultry teen. He picked up the track where the meadow met the woodland and disappeared into the shadowy trees. She knows what she needs to do to make this right. If it hadn’t before, it has seemed very clear to her to since she saw him calm Wendell, and she knows it must be done now. Finishing drying the pots, Hermione advised her parents she was going for a walk, and set off after him.</p><p> </p><p>She walks the same path through the meadow, her fingers brushing the tops of the delicate flowers, where he had chopped and slashed at them. She has never explored the fields around the farm and though she might have worried about getting lost, it is like Severus calls to her.</p><p> </p><p>She enters the woods and the temperature drops; the trees here are wily, gnarled oaks emerging from betwixt mossy boulders. The place hums with ancient song, teasing her magic. She pulls her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders; brambles pluck at her clothes, but she persists onwards, nodding pleasantly at a gathering of bowtruckle who observe her from the branches above.</p><p> </p><p>She is almost relieved to emerge onto the narrow path beyond, as she feels the strange energy dissolve. Now she walks beneath an arc of hawthorn, a tunnel of calming green.</p><p> </p><p>She found him after perhaps another half a mile, sat beside the path, in the shade of a great yew, looking out over fields of barley. In the distance, through the summer haze, Glastonbury Tor peeks above the flat landscape. Severus looked up as he heard her footsteps. He still has the stick in his hand that she saw him with in the meadow and he has been digging absently at the dry mud by his feet.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi,’ she whispered, halting a short distance from him. He nodded in acknowledgment and shifted, almost imperceptibly, so she could perch beside him. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the barley sway in the breeze, then Hermione swallowed, bracingly, and spoke again: ‘what are you thinking?’</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled through his nose. ‘Honestly?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I was thinking this would be a beautiful place to raise a child.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… that’s… you think about that kind of stuff?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not really,’ he shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>There’s another long silence and she knows she needs to offer her explanation now, before she loses her nerve, and loses him. ‘In the summer of ’97, before Harry, Ron and I went hunting for the horcruxes, I altered my parents’ memories. At the time…’ she hesitated, closing her eyes and thinking of how naïve she had been, ‘at the time, it seemed like the <em>only</em> option to protect them…’</p><p> </p><p>And then she told him everything. Of the years she had spent researching the spellwork, yet hoping she would never have to use it. About the story she had threaded through the magic, to convince them they were Monica and Wendell Wilkins, retired bank-workers who had always dreamed of travelling Australia.</p><p> </p><p>Severus stilled at her side, listening intently, and not just to the sound of her voice now: ‘I erased any knowledge they had of me and put all their things in storage. The only thing I left them with was a PO box address, written on a post-it note and stuck into Monica’s Filofax, where they could write to me. They just thought I was a friend, someone they used to work with. I’d Apparate back to the Post Office every now and again while we on the run, whenever I thought Harry and Ron wouldn’t notice. I only received a couple of postcards but it was enough; enough to know they were alright and to have a return address for them. Then, when the war was over, I went to find them.’</p><p> </p><p>She told him of how she a tracked them down to a rented house in an unassuming suburb of Perth, in a garden full of purple hibiscus*, where she had tried to break the spell. ‘I had thought that telling them the truth would do it. That is what was supposed to happen. That is what the books <em>said</em>. But… but…’ she broke off, stifling tears, and then his hand was on hers and she felt buoyed. She continued. ‘Of course, it didn’t work. It was like they were remembering dreams, grasping for something that had only ever existed in their imaginations. Wendell – my dad - reacted the worst. Like you saw today, it’s as though the memory of me lives half-formed in his mind. The ghost of me. I showed them photographs of us all together, but that just made it worse. I told them anecdotes and they called me a liar. Eventually, they returned to England and I found this place for them to buy. My motivation was self-serving, though; I needed them somewhere out of the way, where they were unlikely to interact with too many people, or folks would just think them eccentric. The legal implications of what I’ve done are not lost on me… I could be looking at time in Azkaban if The Ministry found out-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-That won’t happen,’ Severus insisted, and although there still felt to be a chasm between them, she allowed herself some time to bask in his sudden protectiveness.</p><p> </p><p>Then she told him how, from that moment, she had set herself on a new path, not the one she would necessarily have chosen, to become a Healer, to specialise in memory maladies in the hopes she could find a way to help them. ‘Now I come to think of it,’ she said, musingly, ‘<em>we</em> might never have happened if it wasn’t for this mess. I would never have been helping Madam Pomfrey on the hospital wing, I would never have come to Cokeworth. There’s the silver lining… I suppose.’ She smiled at him, and for the first time since their argument on holiday, he returned it. ‘They seemed to be getting on alright, at first,’ she continued. ‘I was back at Hogwarts, so I didn’t see them, but their letters seemed positive. Then I came back here, after that “eighth year,” and I saw the truth. They were shells and over time, things only got worse.</p><p> </p><p>‘I began the Healer’s course and gained access to the library at St. Mungo’s where I spent all my spare time researching memory spells, memory potions, anything I could. I came up with a concoction that I thought might work; it took into account the initial spell I’d cast, the efforts I’d already made to help them, things I had read about that worked for other people in similar situations… it was going to be perfect… this is what I do, I’m supposed to be intelligent, I read and I research and I practice, and it has never failed me before…’ she paused, breathing deeply and quickly for a moment before she felt ready to go on. ‘Some of the ingredients I needed are very potent and not for sale to the general public, so I made it all a part of the legitimate work I needed to do for my course: <em>my final project</em>. I wrote a dissertation on these two hapless Muggles I’d come across, accidentally and hopelessly Confunded. And it culminated in my end of year exam.’</p><p> </p><p>‘The exam you failed?’</p><p> </p><p>She placed her hands in front of her face as if praying and closed her eyes. She nodded slowly. ‘You know what happened… you said it yourself when you were helping me practice, that if the quantities and ratios of a memory potion aren’t correct then it might make matters worse… I lost them completely after that and I have only myself to blame. Monica is lovely, but she’s this ditty, hapless old woman; she couldn’t be more different to my mum. And Wendell… oh, poor, poor Wendell… He doesn’t always think straight, he gets hurt a lot. That’s where I go, sometimes. Monica calls me when she can’t cope. That time my phone rang when I first came to see you, he’d fallen down the cellar stairs, and that time I promised I’d come back, after we first kissed, and I didn’t… I’d been with him at the hospital after he’d crashed the tractor into a wall-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Sorry.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What for?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I was horrible to you about that… I didn’t know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course you didn’t,’ she said, reaching up to stroke his stubbly jaw with the tips of her fingers, thinking how far they’d come since those incidents. ‘I didn’t want you to know. But I do now… You see, it’s also where I’ve been for the past few days. He set a fire in the barn. He’d found some old documents pertaining to their old identities and it had sent him completely mad. He burnt his hands but... it could have been a lot worse. He’s getting worse, and it’s all my fault. Do you understand what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I understand guilt,’ Severus replied, quietly, then he frowned and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Now you’re saying it, I feel like I know all this... but…’</p><p> </p><p>‘I did tell you, once. I sat at your bedside on the hospital wing and I cried and I told you everything I’m telling you now.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That doesn’t count.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know. But guilt isn’t the reason I didn’t tell you again, Severus. It is my greatest shame to be the reason my parents are living this life. I wish you could have met them before; they were so vibrant, intelligent, funny… They would have liked you,’ – she ignored the scoffing sound he made – ‘my dad would have wanted to go foraging with you, and my mum would have discussed Muggle politics with you. She read <em>The Guardian</em> too... before.’</p><p> </p><p>She waited for him to say something but he just continued to look out frowningly over the fields.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you see now, how I owe them? Why I <em>have</em> to stay here and help them, until I can figure out a way to undo what I’ve done? How me not staying at Spinner’s End is nothing to do with <em>us</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>He was breathing slowly, his features set in impassive blankness. After a moment he sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and half-shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe,’ he eventually said. ‘But you could still have told me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Like I said, I was waiting for the right time.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>What?</em> What were you waiting for?’ he demands, and she realises his anger has not entirely dissipated. He presses the stick into the dirt with such strength that it snaps; he stares at the piece still in his hand. She waited for him to look at her, and then couldn’t help but smile. ‘What?’ he grunted.</p><p> </p><p>‘I was waiting to be sure that I loved you. That’s all.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* I know nothing about the flora and fauna of Australia, but when I was imagining this scene I couldn’t get bright purple flowers out of my head and when I did a quick Google, it rather serendipitously turned out that there’s a beautiful purple hibiscus native to the Western coast of Australia!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. That is not a Cat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn’t say it back, but she doesn’t need him to; she has felt it for weeks, in his hand as it brushes a stray curl behind her ear, in his tone, and his lingering kiss. In the smile he saves just for her.</p><p> </p><p>And that is enough.</p><p> </p><p>‘OK,’ he whispers, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a slightly self-satisfied smirk.</p><p> </p><p>‘OK?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p> </p><p>She shifts closer to him and, tilting her head upwards, presses her lips against his; he tastes of the fresh lemonade they’d drank earlier. She has missed this, missed him. Then his arm his around her, drawing their bodies together more firmly and for the briefest of moments she could almost forget the trouble with her parents. It is with great reluctance that she eventually pulls away for air. She nestles into his side, with his arm still draped over her shoulders, and rests her head against his chest. They are silent again, for a time, watching the dancing barley as the sun begins to set and their shadows grow long.</p><p> </p><p>She shivers as an evening breeze picks up and, regrettably, he insists they walk back to the house. He is helping her to her feet when a rustling in the trees behind them startles them both.</p><p> </p><p>‘What was that?’ she asked, as they both cast about into the gloomy woodland.</p><p> </p><p>‘Dunno,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘The woods down here make me so uneasy; did you feel it when you walked through them earlier?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thin place,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Come on.’</p><p> </p><p>He held out his hand to her, which she took, and they sat off back along the footpath. ‘You said thin places were folk tales.’</p><p> </p><p>‘The stories have to come from somewhere.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You know I don’t like things I don’t understand.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I do,’ he teased, looking over at her with a dreadful grin, though it fades as he adds, ‘although, <em>understanding</em> isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.’</p><p> </p><p>She studied him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye; his brow furrowed and his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, tightening her grip on his hand.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, just…’ he meets her eye and his features softened, ‘perhaps a bit…’ He took a long pause.</p><p> </p><p>They had walked through the archway of hawthorn and entered the gnarled forest that led to the meadow. As they moved along the winding path, ducking out of the way of low-hanging branches, Hermione got the distinct feeling they were being watched. Severus seemed to sense something too; he kept her close, he quickened their pace, and he certainly seemed distracted from whatever he had been about to say.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sev… you were saying?’ she encouraged him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… yeah… perhaps I’m a bit overwhelmed,’ he eventually grunted.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded. ‘Sorry… of course. Entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have done it like this… I had it all planned differently but… I felt, well, desperate in the end.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe I backed you into a bit of a corner.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe… but you know now and I <em>was</em> ready to tell you. If I’d been unsure before, seeing you with Dell earlier… <em>then</em> I knew. Hey!’ she tugged on his arm and made him look at her again. ‘I meant what I said.’ He nodded, managed a small smile. ‘Will you stay here with me tonight?’ she asked. She wanted to prove to him that her being here wouldn’t have to mean things would be different; that he had a place here too, if he wanted it.</p><p> </p><p>‘If you like.’</p><p> </p><p>She was about to commend his enthusiasm when something large, fury*, and ginger practically pounced on him from out of a tree. It collided against his chest with a dull thud and with no little elegance landed on the path in front of him, baring its teeth and hissing at him.</p><p> </p><p>Severus made a sound Hermione had never heard him make before, something akin to a yelp, and jumped behind her, his hands on her upper arms to position her in front of him like a shield. ‘What the <em>fuck</em>?’ he said, through gritted teeth.</p><p> </p><p>‘Crooks!’ Hermione beamed, extricating herself from Severus’s grip and bending to pick up Crookshanks. She cuddled him like a human child. ‘That was a bit rude,’ she chided him. ‘And have you been following us?’</p><p> </p><p>‘W-what is that?’ Severus stammered, keeping his distance.</p><p> </p><p>‘Crookshanks. My cat.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>That</em> is not a cat,’ Severus huffed.</p><p> </p><p>‘He <em>is</em>!’ she retorted, in mock-outrage. ‘Well, he’s half-kneazle. And very protective of me, so you better watch out,’ she warned, with a grin, making Crookshank’s paw wave at Severus. She glanced down at Crookshanks in her arms; he had turned his head almost all the way around so he could watch Severus through narrowed eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why is he looking at me like that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘He’s suspicious. You’re a suspicious sort. But…’ she paused, moving closer towards Severus, whose whole body stiffened warily. ‘What he doesn’t yet realise is that, in time, he will come to love you almost as much as I do.’ She realised she was speaking in the baby-voice Crookshanks always brought out in her and felt her cheeks blush. Severus didn’t look to have noticed though; he was stood, glaring back at the cat. ‘Do you not like cats, Severus?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That is <em>not</em> a cat,’ he said, simply.</p><p> </p><p>‘Stroke him.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her with a horrified expression and then tentatively raised his hand in Crookshank’s direction. Something flashed in the cat’s eyes and then, ‘no!’ Severus said, retreating and shoving his hand deep inside his trouser pocket.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione tutted. ‘The two of you are going to have to learn to get on,’ she replied, kissing Crookshanks on the top of his fury head and placing him back down on the ground. ‘Come on,’ she added, gesturing to Severus. With a final grimace at the cat, he followed her and they set off back to the house, Crookshanks between them, standing guard like a protective father.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They lay in bed together, later that night, exhausted from the emotion of the day, though sleep eludes them both.</p><p> </p><p>They huddle on one of the two single beds in the spare room, which is as similarly cluttered and chaotic as the rest of the house, piled high with boxes full of her parents’ belongings, things from the <em>before</em>. ‘Patterns everywhere,’ Severus had grumbled when she’d shown him in. Crookshanks had had to be locked outside the room for he had spent the rest of the evening prowling about and glaring at Severus with his hackles raised; he has only recently stopped scratching at the door, probably skulking down to the cellar where he hunts for mice.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione heard Severus sigh beside her and turned in his arms so they were facing one another. It is really too hot to be huddled so close, even with the window open and the soft breeze that causes the curtains to billow, but they needed this tonight. She observed him in the silvery light of the moon; she can tell he isn’t sleeping when his face is marred with lines of consternation.</p><p> </p><p>She reached up and pressed out his frown: ‘Sickle for your thoughts,’ she whispered.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You keep sighing. What’s wrong?’</p><p> </p><p>Another deep sigh, then he opened his eyes. ‘Just… thinking about something you said earlier.’ His voice is husky with tiredness.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sure you have lots of questions.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No… well, maybe… but, it’s not that...’ He swallows audibly and when he speaks again there is almost a nervousness to his tone, something she hasn’t heard in him for a long time and she feels a jolt of panic. ‘I don’t want to argue anymore…’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re scaring me.’</p><p> </p><p>They look at one another through the darkness and he shakes his head resignedly. ‘You said you had to stay here until you had undone this.’</p><p> </p><p>‘As soon as I find a way to help them-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Hermione-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-It might not even take long if I get the job at King Arthur’s, get access to their library, their research facilities, their expertise-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Hermione-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-I thought perhaps… perhaps now <em>you</em> know, you could even help me?-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Hermione, <em>stop</em>!’ he pleaded, and when she met his gaze again it was to find him looking at her with a deep sorrowfulness.</p><p> </p><p>‘No!’ she said, resolute, ‘I know what you’re going to say, but-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Hermione?’ he entreated, more softly now. ‘What use is pretending?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I need to have hope.’</p><p> </p><p>‘There is hope and there is delusion!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, <em>please</em>…’ she said, frantically, starting to feel dread well inside her. She could no longer quell her tears and she let them flow, turning her face to sob into the pillow. It isn’t long before he’s holding her close again, whispering that he’s sorry, over and over. She gasps a final time and stills in his arms. ‘You don’t think there’s anything can be done for them?’ she finally asked, bracing herself for his response.</p><p> </p><p>He shifted away from her slightly so he could look at her again. ‘I don’t know… maybe,’ he said, noncommittally. </p><p> </p><p>‘You’re just saying what you think I want to hear.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, licked his lips thoughtfully, followed by a long, pregnant silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed, ‘I just… from what I’ve seen… I… I think it’s unlikely… but what do I know?’ he added with a small shrug.</p><p> </p><p>‘Plenty about memory potions,’ she said, resignedly, turning onto her back. He closed the distance this caused between them and placed a warm hand on her stomach, the other stroking absently through her hair, soothing and comforting, for both them most likely. ‘New ways are found to harness magic all the time. What’s to say I won’t be able to do that?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing,’ he replied, with a small, reassuring smile, ‘you <em>are</em> quite brilliant.’ She sighed a breathy, cynical chuckle in response to that and brought her hand over his on her stomach, intertwining their fingers. ‘Perhaps,’ he continued, after a moment of watching their hands together, ‘there are other ways I could make myself useful.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I wouldn’t mind helping Monica with Wendell when you’re at work sometimes and I could try and sort the house out a bit. If you’re living here I want to know it’s… <em>safe</em>,’ he suggested.</p><p> </p><p>‘Safe?’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned again. ‘It worried me, the way Wendell looked at you earlier, the way he pushed you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘He’s never done that before. And I have my wand,’ she insisted.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’ He pulled a strange, pained expression.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just… that’s the kind of thing my mum used to say. And the way he behaved, Wendell, it gave me the same feelings my dad used to give me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘My dad is <em>not</em> like yours was,’ she said, aghast.</p><p> </p><p>He moved his hand down to her thigh and pressed it more firmly against her skin, then leaned over her so she was forced to meet his eye. ‘I know,’ he said, earnestly, ‘I’m not saying he is, just… Wendell isn’t your father, is he? Not <em>really</em>. I know he might not mean to hurt you, but you said he’s getting worse and… it makes me worry, is all. You have to call me, any time, if he’s kicking off like that again.’</p><p> </p><p>She felt slightly stunned, especially as he had so astutely captured her own growing fears. She eventually managed to nod in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>‘You have to promise me. <em>Say it</em>,’ he demanded.</p><p> </p><p>‘I- I will,’ she stammered.</p><p> </p><p>He eyed her sceptically for a moment and then nodded his approval. ‘And the house is a death trap,’ he continued, ‘you can’t argue with that.’</p><p> </p><p>She chuckled. ‘No, I can’t,’ she replied, finding her voice again now he had relaxed somewhat. ‘I try to get on top of it when I visit, but they work more quickly than me at cluttering the place back up.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If you, and they, want me to, I’ll help sort it out.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’d do that? Without magic?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… it’ll keep me occupied, won’t it, all those long days you’re at work. Stop me sitting idle, as you like to say.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled at him, at his protectiveness and his tenderness. She felt like she had him back, finally. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. ‘Come on. We should sleep,’ he then said, pecking her on the lips and settling into a more comfortable position in the bed. She snuggled back down beside him and pulled his arm over her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, can ask you one more thing?’ she said, after a moment.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Are</em> you scared of cats?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Go to sleep,’ he grizzled.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He sits, profoundly alone, in his armchair at Spinner’s End. She might never have been there; if he didn’t know better, were it not for his heart aching with loss, he might never have believed the last six months had been anything but a figment of his imagination.</p><p> </p><p>Had he felt alone here before? Possibly. But that had been solitude without the knowledge of what her companionship was like, it was self-imposed and self-punishing; this was a solitude that understood what it meant to have had her once, and now to not. He has to remind himself, audibly, in a low whisper, that it is not over, he will see her soon. Has to remind himself of her promise this won’t change anything between them, even if he can’t believe her.</p><p> </p><p>She had stood on her tiptoes in this very room, earlier that afternoon, had run her hands up his shoulder blades, had him shivering under her touch, as she’d kissed him deeply. He’d combed his fingers through her hair, taken in the warmth of her gaze, as if it might be for the last time. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she’d said, with a small, heartening smile, before disappearing with a crack.</p><p> </p><p>He was half-angry with himself for being so pathetic, so needy. He liked to believe he had never relied on anyone in his entire life, and here he was, pining for a girlfriend. The dawning realisation that these feelings were familiar, that they shared some resemblance to those he had had for Lily, were particularly disturbing to him.</p><p> </p><p>He drummed his fingers on the side table and looked down at his tented jogging bottoms. With a sigh, he made his way upstairs to the bathroom and turned on the shower, lamenting what he might have been fortuitous enough to do in such a predicament had Hermione still been here.</p><p> </p><p>When he’d finished in the shower he moved to the sink, opening the cabinet above to find a pink sticky note fastened to the toothbrush holder, where his toothbrush stood, still next to hers: <em>For when I come and stay x</em>, it said, in Hermione’s sloping handwriting. Later, when he went to bed, there was another stuck to the pillow: <em>my side x</em>, it read. And the next morning, when he went downstairs to make himself breakfast, he found she’d left her ridiculous mug, a huge one in the shape of cat’s head, in the cupboard, with another note attached: <em>Don’t forget how I like my tea x. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>His lips had twitched into an involuntary smile as he’d found each one: maybe she did mean what she said, after all.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re a terrible distraction,’ she said, a few evenings later. They’d had an agreement, for this very reason, that they wouldn’t see each other for a few days, until after her interview at King Arthur’s. She needed to prepare. But, it was the night before and she’d called him in something of a panic about it all. Dutifully, he had arrived at the farm within minutes. She slid her hands around his waist and into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling their bodies flush and resting her head on his chest. Immediately, she felt his eagerness to be back in her presence, firm against her stomach. He groaned pleasurably and she raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Did you come here with an ulterior motive, Severus? You’re <em>supposed</em> to be helping me get ready for my interview.’</p><p> </p><p>‘But I have been so starved of affection of late,’ he rumbled in her ear. ‘And this will help you relax.’ He roamed his own hands up the inside of her top, stroking the silkiness of her skin, and caressing her breasts with his thumbs.</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that right?’ she breathed, grinning wickedly up at him. Then she shook her head. ‘No. After.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ugh,’ he moaned, pouting theatrically and releasing her.</p><p> </p><p>She knew she couldn’t offer him her full attention until they’d worked through her list of potential questions she might be asked tomorrow, and with one glance at her wild hair and the mismatched pyjamas she’d been wearing all day, he would know that too. So, she sat cross-legged on one of the beds, and he sat cross-legged on the other, and they role-played her interview, once, twice, and again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Would you give me the job?’ she asked when they’d done.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, but you’re sleeping with me, so…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, well there’s an idea I can try with the Healers if things don’t go to plan tomorrow,’ she teased, moving across the room towards him. He unfolded his legs and she knelt between them on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oi!’ he complained half-heartedly, his breath hitching as her hands roved up his thighs and unbuckled his belt…</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘Where are you going?’ she asked some time later as he stood and pulled his trousers back up. She, sat on the edge of the bed now, rubbed her sore knees.</p><p> </p><p>‘Home.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Stay.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, then paused, appearing to regret his own resolve on the matter. ‘You need a good night’s sleep which…’ he added, smirking as he looked her up and down, hungrily, ‘I can’t guarantee you if I stay.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, you <em>are</em> a terrible distraction… Wish me luck then.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Good luck,’ he said, swooping to press a kiss against her lips, ‘but you don’t need it. I’ll come tomorrow, cook you a celebratory meal, if you like.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I wish I shared your confidence <em>but</em>, that way, even if I don’t get the job, I can eat my feelings.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Precisely.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you for tonight.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, thank <em>you</em>!’</p><p> </p><p>Another kiss and then he was gone, leaving her to contend with her nerves and frantic overthinking alone. <em>Everything</em> rested on tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She wasn’t back from her interview when Severus arrived at Withy Copse Farm the next day. Knowing what today meant to her, or meant <em>for</em> her, had rattled his own nerves when he’d awoken to consider it in the cold light of day. Perhaps he <em>should</em> have stayed with her last night. Anyway, he couldn’t remain at Spinner’s End, pacing about and biting his nails in lieu of a smoke, so he’d Apparated to the farm to busy himself preparing dinner.</p><p> </p><p>He was sat currently in the kitchen an hour or so later, a not-too-spicy chili con carni, still her favourite, bubbling on the stove, and Monica and Wendell nearby, talking incessantly about things he wasn’t listening to, when she walked through the door. She glanced around, taking them all in, and then smiled fondly. For their part, they all stared at her expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>One of Severus’s favourite past times being the study of every minutiae of her every expression and emotion, he read Hermione’s jubilation in her tear-filled eyes, her slow nod, the slight shake of her hands, before she had even uttered a word.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well?’ Monica asked, urgently.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Hermione breathed, ‘I got it!’</p><p> </p><p>Monica and Wendell were on their feet in an instance, embracing and congratulating Hermione, but Severus remained in his seat, observing her, full of pride and with a small smile that said he’d never doubted her. She met his gaze over Wendell’s shoulder as they hugged and sighed, tears of happiness and relief trailing down her cheeks, a contented expression coming over her as though some great weight had been lifted. Patiently, Severus waited until Monica and Wendell had finished and then stood and bundled her in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>‘Congratulations,’ he said, quietly, just to her.</p><p> </p><p>‘I got it,’ she said, disbelievingly, ‘I got the job.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course you did,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>‘All that work… all those years…’ She glanced at Monica and Wendell and then up at Severus.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Later that evening, the sky aflame with the setting sun, Hermione was to be found out on the patio, stood watching two rabbits frolic about the meadow. Severus came behind her and slid his arms around her waist, resting his hands on her stomach and his chin on her shoulder. She brought her own hands over his and leaned back into him.</p><p> </p><p>‘And thus ends our summer,’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm?’</p><p> </p><p>‘First you said we only had until July, then you said we would have the summer before you had to make any real decisions. Now here we are; summer is at a close and the decisions are made.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry it couldn’t be the decision you wanted and, from now on, I won’t place any more timescales on us.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Time goes too fast when you do.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Disconcertingly so… instead, perhaps this can be the start of our forever.’</p><p> </p><p>He smiled and nuzzled her neck, smelling the sweet fragrance of her perfume. He still couldn’t believe in a <em>forever</em>, not yet, but right here in this moment, she didn’t need to know that. Then he felt something brush against his ankle, leaving behind a trail of ginger hairs, stark against the black of the fabric, and heard the soft purring of Crookshanks. Severus felt himself stiffen and his grip on Hermione tighten as the animal wove between his and Hermione’s legs. At least the thing was no longer hissing.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re growing on him,’ Hermione said, reassuringly.</p><p> </p><p>‘I can’t say the feeling is mutual,’ Severus admitted.</p><p> </p><p>She <em>tsked</em> him and swatted him on the arm. ‘The cat is part of the package, I’m afraid.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That is not a cat.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* This chapter is filled with literal and figurative fluff! Normal, angst-y, scheduling resumes in the next, eponymous, chapter…</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Murmurations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Severus was hidden behind a tree. He felt juvenile and foolish and, borne from this, an unmitigated fury surged through his body. To him, the very beating of his heart seemed audible, would surely give him away, and he focused on steadying his breathing, which came in short, quick rasps. His phone vibrated in his back pocket but he daren’t reach for it. He glanced down to see his knuckles had turned white with the ferocity with which he was clutching the purple gift bag in his hands, then he closed his eyes and willed himself invisible, as if that might be enough</p><p> </p><p>‘… just worried about a friend… If anything, I feel a bit sorry for her,’ a voice said, growing gradually louder as its owner, and his companions, moved down the dirt track. Thankful of the lack of subtlety typical of Gryffindors, Severus had heard them coming from a way off, giving him ample opportunity to assume his current position, though he listened more carefully to what they were saying now: ‘All I’m saying is, we’re all moving through these seasons of life together – getting married, having kids - and Hermione has just moved back in with her parents for God’s sake.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s so unfair, Ron!’ a female voice admonished him. ‘People have different priorities. Hermione just qualified as a Healer and started a really good job. She’s worked really hard for it. Maybe that’s why the two of you would never have worked, because she has ambition and you’re content with just faffing about at the shop with George.’</p><p> </p><p>‘As I’ve been trying to tell her since we were twelve,’ the first voice said, ignoring the woman’s last jibe, ‘there’s more to life than good grades and good jobs. There’s a certain irony in the fact that it was Hermione who convinced me I should leave the Auror program to “find something that makes me happy and not do what I feel I ought to be doing,” when that seems to be precisely what she has done.’</p><p> </p><p>‘She doesn’t seem unhappy, mate,’ another male voice, familiar, but deeper than the last time Severus had heard it, said. ‘And she’s moved back to <em>look after</em> her parents. We knew they weren’t… right.’ <em>Potter</em>, Severus thought, <em>undoubtedly</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The voices were very close now, possibly just entering the small clearing of the make-shift Apparition point at the end of the track that led to the farm. Severus considered Apparating himself away, but didn’t think he could muster the concentration it required to do so wandlessly, not in his current state of agitation. Instead, holding his breath now, he stood so still that his muscles ached with the tension of it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe so,’ the first voice – Weasley’s, apparently - mused, ‘but she always had such potential; could have been anything, done anything… had it <em>all</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘If anyone is deserving of pity, Ron, it’s <em>you</em>,’ the female voice said, sounding only half in jest. ‘Your pre-occupation with Hermione only makes you sound jealous, you do know that, don’t you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Pff</em>,’ Weasley protested, somewhat feebly.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re just bitter Hermione didn’t want to settle down right out of school have an entire Quidditch team of children with you!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Am <em>not</em>!’ came the petulant reply.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, you’ve convinced me now!’ Potter says sardonically, with a mirthless chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>‘Talia wants a Quidditch team.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Good job it’s <em>her</em> you’re marrying then, eh?’</p><p> </p><p>Weasley muttered some response to that which Severus couldn’t hear, though he was grateful at this point; he had heard enough. The trio said their farewells and with one crack and then another, there was silence, save the rustling of fallen leaves in the breeze. Cautiously, Severus peered from behind the tree trunk; sighing with relief at the sight of the empty clearing.</p><p> </p><p>He moved out of his hiding place, scowling at his mud-ruined trainers, and began up the track towards the farm. Autumn is dawning with commanding bleakness: <em>I am here, the world is dying</em>. It is suddenly cool, and a brisk wind blusters over the hills, adding to his discontentment.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had told Severus once, a while ago now, that Weasley had been her first boyfriend, the one person she had been intimate with before him. Inwardly, Severus had felt quite superior about it; no one had ever touched her like <em>he</em> had, made her <em>feel</em> the way he knew <em>he</em> was capable of making her feel. There had been barely anything to tell, from what Hermione had said, so there were certainly no feelings of jealousy. But there was an unmistakable tone to Weasley’s voice, an attempt at insouciance that belied his true feelings; Severus recognised it only because it was how <em>he</em> so often sounded to his own ears.</p><p> </p><p>Then there was what Weasley had said: ‘<em>I feel a bit sorry for her… we’re all moving through these seasons of life together – getting married, having kids… she always had such potential; could have been anything, done anything… had it all</em>.’ These words played into Severus’s deepest anxiety, that he was restricting her, restraining her, a barrier to fulfillment. And to hear these things echoed from Weasley’s mouth only made it all the more bitter.</p><p> </p><p>All of this made Severus’s insides writhe, made him inexplicably, unfairly, annoyed with Hermione; feelings he tried, unsuccessfully, to shake before he knocked on the front door of the farmhouse.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi,’ Hermione said, beckoning him inside a short time later. They hugged and he whispered ‘Happy Birthday’ in her ear. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, before stretching up to kiss him. ‘Oh,’ she then said, pulling away, ‘you look different. Your hair…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Just had it cut.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Short,’ she commented. He brushed a hand through it self-consciously, not yet accustomed to the length; it was certainly shorter than he had ever worn it in his life. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘And the beard.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hardly a beard,’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>She smiled at him, a little bewildered perhaps, and shook her head. ‘What’s prompted the new look?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err…’ he glanced down at the gift bag again. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘I got you some presents.’</p><p> </p><p>He offered her the purple bag, which she took with a strange smile on her face before leading him into the living room, where he fell onto one of the settees.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He had spent the last three weeks trying to spruce up Withy Copse Farm, a task which often felt endless and thankless. The first few days he had worked in the kitchen, got it tidied and clean, and given everything its own place; he’d cleared the hallway in the days afterwards, discarding the piles of newspapers and other detritus into the disused barn for now; and he’d tidied Hermione’s bedroom too, borrowing her wand to transfigure the single beds into a double, though that was perhaps as much for his own benefit as hers. Already though, he could see signs of the mess and confusion creeping back in; piles of unopened mail kicked to one side by the front door, a thick layer of dust on a side table, cupboards bulging. Wendell and Monica worked more quickly than he did, and Severus had lived with Hermione, knew she’d be little help in regards to being tidy.</p><p> </p><p>‘You <em>just</em> missed my friends,’ Hermione spoke again, gesturing to the used mugs and plates of crumbs on the coffee table. ‘I was terrified you were going to meet on the track. I did try calling you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I know. I was hidden in a bush when they Apparated away.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she said, with a small smile, seeming to find the idea amusing. ‘Very dignified.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus folded his arms, wondering cynically if she hadn’t planned it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ginny is having a baby,’ she then said, ‘and Ron is marrying Talia Murray.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ he said, thinking again about the conversation he’d overheard earlier. ‘I really don’t care.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh. Nice,’ she said, with wide-eyed incredulity.</p><p> </p><p>He looked away from her grumpily and saw, by the hearth, what must have been birthday presents from her friends surrounded by balled up pieces of wrapping paper; amongst them was an arrangement of sugar quills, set almost like a bouquet of flowers, wrapped with ribbon and shimmering tissue paper. ‘Who got you that?’ he grunted.</p><p> </p><p>She followed his gaze. ‘Oh. Ron,’ she replied. ‘He knows I love sugar quills.’</p><p> </p><p><em>Fucking Weasley</em>, Severus thought. He looked back over at Hermione to see her waiting expectantly, drumming her fingers against the purple gift bag on her lap. ‘Go on then,’ he urged her, perhaps a little brusquely.</p><p> </p><p>She frowned at him but said nothing as she delved into the bag. He had labored endlessly over what gifts to get her, worried about balancing practicality, which he knew she would appreciate, with things she didn’t need but might <em>want</em>. He had never bought anyone a birthday present before; another first she had forced him confront.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Severus,’ she said, unwrapping the leather-bound notebook he’d found at a small stationary shop in Manchester. ‘This’ll be great for work.’ She made similar comments as she opened an engraved fountain pen and a some fancy coffee the woman in the shop had assured him was especially strong.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ was all he said in reply, until she pulled out the next gift and his breath caught in his throat. It was a collection of sugar quills, bound in ribbon and wrapped in shimmering tissue paper. It was not at all dissimilar to the gift Weasley got her, except significantly smaller, perhaps ten treats compared with his thirty.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione sat silently for a moment, holding Severus’s sugar quill bouquet loosely in her hands. ‘Severus…’ she eventually croaked, her gaze rising to meet his with a frown. ‘Where… how did you… did you go to Honeyduke’s for these?’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged, affecting nonchalance, as though it had been nothing, even though it had been everything, and with another glance at Weasley’s gift to her, he sighed. He had turned Spinner’s End practically upside down trying to scrape enough wizarding money together so that he might afford, without a trip to Gringott’s, some simple sugar quills; of course he would have liked to have bought her the bigger selection, but seven galleons, three sickles and knut would only get him so far. It was also why he had had his hair cut, and why he had let his facial hair grow out to this awful, scratchy phase; it was all in an attempt to disguise himself somewhat.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione looked at Weasley’s gift too, then back at Severus with an expression he hoped wasn’t <em>pity</em>. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, smiling warmly over at him. ‘I don’t think you know how much it means to me, Severus, that you would risk being recognised just to get me my favourite sweets.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah. You are funny sometimes!’</p><p> </p><p>‘There’s something else in there,’ he then added, nodding in the direction of the gift bag.</p><p> </p><p>She reached into the bag a final time and pulled out a little black box. ‘Is this jewellery?’ she asked, beaming. He watched her carefully as she pulled back the lid to reveal a delicate silver necklace, its pendant set with an tear drop of black jet. She audibly gasped, precisely the type of response he had sought to elicit, as she pulled it from the box. ‘Is this from Whitby*?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Fasten it for me?’ she asked. She handed him the necklace and kneeling with her back to him, lifted her own hair out of the way. He took the fine chain in what suddenly felt like clumsy, fumbling fingers but, after a few attempts, managed the clasp, before sliding his hands to her shoulders and leaning forwards to kiss the top of her head. She turned to him, looking down at the necklace. ‘This is really beautiful, and so meaningful. Thank you.’</p><p> </p><p>He responded with a close-lipped, noncommittal smile.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hey,’ she said, moving forwards and dropping onto his lap. She lay an arm languidly around his shoulders and pressed her face against his cheek. ‘It’s my birthday,’ she continued, ‘so stop sulking.’</p><p> </p><p>She’d been on nights at King Arthur’s for the past week so he hasn’t see her much, just briefly if he’s arrived early enough in the mornings before she’s crashed into bed; it isn’t the first time they’ve spent time apart, of course, but for some reason he’s really <em>felt </em>it, has missed her achingly. He wished he could shake the dour mood he’s in, make the most of this time because who knows when he’ll see her again, but it is stubborn and sticky.</p><p> </p><p>He grounded himself with acknowledgement of her weight on his knee, the fragrance of her perfume, the feel of her soft skin against his stubbly cheek. Then he touched the pendant of the necklace, where it rest on her chest, gently with the tip of his finger; it does look beautiful, bold against her sun-bronzed skin. <em>She</em> makes it look beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right,’ he said, in a tone which promised nothing.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had awoken that morning, on the occasion of her twenty-seventh birthday, with the warm, reassuring weight of Crookshanks on her chest. His soft purrs expelled the guilt she always awoke with on her birthday, contrition that she had lived to see another when so many had not. She felt much older than her years as she absently stroked her familiar, watching the tree outside her window slowly begin to shed its plumage of leaves, set against a grey sky.</p><p> </p><p>Birthdays always provide poignant way markers throughout life. When she was younger Hermione had thought in terms of what she would have achieved by a certain age, but she hasn’t done this since the war. It inevitably led to disappointment or, at times, catastrophic blows to her self-esteem. And, anyway, who knows if there will even be a tomorrow?</p><p> </p><p>She smiles at how Severus would never have fit into her imaginings and yet he has brought more happiness than she would ever have thought possible. Indeed, she has <em>dared</em> to be happy in the last twelve months, has allowed fate to take her hand and lead its merry dance, ever since he entered the corner shop, heralded by the soft tinkle of the doorbell, all that time ago.</p><p> </p><p>But Hermione knows better than most of the fragility of happiness, that though it can burn deep, it can also be extinguished in an instance. Severus has a way of reminding her of this, of revealing to her than things she believed to be solid and true are, in fact, tenuous and frail. It’s there in the disbelief that still flickers in his eyes when she implores that she has missed him after a time apart, or the way he can’t meet her gaze when, regularly now, she tells him that she loves him.</p><p> </p><p>With a sigh, she had roused herself reluctantly, upsetting Crookshanks in the process, showered, and moved downstairs to the kitchen where Monica had cooked her a birthday breakfast of boiled eggs and soldiers. She could see Wendell across the meadow, talking to <em>nobody</em>; she devoured the eggs, trying to ignore the sight of him gesticulating at thin air.</p><p> </p><p>She had not expected Harry, Ginny, and Ron’s knock at the door, but she was pleased by the surprise, that they had thought of her, and welcomed them in. They had lounged in the living room, eating a cake Ginny had baked, drinking tea and laughing until their bellies ached; it felt like a long time since Hermione had laughed like that. She had been somewhat distracted, casting furtive glances down the track to make sure Severus wasn’t on his way, but for the most part had enjoyed being present with her friends. She would not even allow Ron’s parting comment, something about birthdays spent alone, to ruin that.</p><p> </p><p>Now it was early evening and she was sat at a restaurant by the river in Henley-on-Thames, a quaint little place she’d used to come on her birthday with her parents as a child, pushing the last few bites of a slice of cheesecake around her plate. Severus was sat across from her, looking at her through slightly unfocused eyes. She had frowned at him questioningly after he ordered his third pint, positively glowered at him when he ordered his fifth.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you think maybe we ought to go home?’ she asked him, an eyebrow raised.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, resting his elbow on the table and placing his chin in his hand.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re drunk.’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. ‘And I <em>really</em> want a cigarette.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then go have one,’ she hissed. They fell into silence, glaring at one another challengingly. He was the first to break away, sitting back in his seat and looking out of the window at the river with a huff. ‘Why are you being like this?’ she asked, with an exasperated sigh. ‘This isn’t fair, and,’ she glanced around the busy restaurant, ‘it’s embarrassing.’</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed at that.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you know what?’ she said, standing and pulling on her coat, ‘let’s just go.’</p><p> </p><p>He stood too, ignoring her withering expression as he swayed slightly, using the table to steady himself, before dropping some notes onto it to pay for the meal. Hermione inhaled the fresh air once they were outside, walking with her head low and willing herself not to cry until she got home, not to cry in front of Severus and give him the satisfaction of having upset her. She set quite a pace as she moved along the river path, heading for boatyard, closed for the night, where they could Apparate from.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll side-along Apparate you to Spinner’s End and then I’m going back to Withy Copse,’ she said, bluntly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you want children?’ he then asked.</p><p> </p><p>The comment was so incongruous that Hermione was struck dumb. She stopped and turned to him. ‘What?’ she asked, quite incredulous when she eventually did find her voice.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you want to get married? Have children?’ His voice was still slightly slurred from the alcohol, but the way he looked at her she could tell he was earnest.</p><p> </p><p>‘Is this a proposition?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Definitely not.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then where’s it come from?’ she said, her patience thin.</p><p> </p><p>‘Earlier, when I was hiding in that bush-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-You know, you wouldn’t have had to hide in a bush if you didn’t have these ridiculous notions about what might happen if we told people about us!’</p><p> </p><p>‘Earlier, when I was hiding in that bush,’ he repeated, as though there had been no interruption, ‘Weasley said something about your friends all getting married and having kids and he… <em>inferred</em> you were being left behind.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh,’ she said, feeling her stomach drop, ‘did he now?’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Is</em> that how you feel?’</p><p> </p><p>She sighed. ‘Sometimes, maybe… I don’t know,’ she admitted.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, God,’ Severus muttered, more to himself than to her.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t expect <em>you</em> to do anything about it,’ she then said, quite curtly, turning from him again and striding back off towards the boatyard. She could sense he had not immediately followed her, that he had stayed stood on the path some way behind her, gathering his thoughts. But then, in the next moment, she heard his quickening footsteps, felt his hand around upper arm, and then the world spun around her.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>A moment later they re-appeared in the middle of a vast marshland.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione just about managed to stay on her feet, but it took a moment to shake off the daze she’d been left in. Once she had, she rounded on Severus: ‘That was such a stupid thing to do when you’ve been drinking!’ she shouted at him, disturbing some nearby birds which rose into the air with a shrill caw.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t respond at first; he was hunched over some reeds, clutching his stomach and retching into the water. He stood, after a moment, breathing deeply, a hand pressed against his sternum, eyes screwed shut. He looked more pale than usual. ‘Sorry,’ he grunted. He looked at her then, his features softening. ‘Really. I’m sorry.’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head and glanced around. Whilst she could appreciate the beauty of the English countryside, this place felt so remote, so desolate, it was almost eerie. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘This place sorts my head out, I…’ he hesitated, looking out over towards the horizon, chewing his bottom lip, ‘I’ve wanted to bring you here for a while. There’s something I want to…’ he paused, frowning at her, ‘something I wanted to <em>show</em> you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus, it’s cold and I don’t have the right footwear…’</p><p> </p><p>He closed the distance between them, reached for her, then hesitated. ‘Please?’ he beseeched.</p><p> </p><p>There was a solemn, heavy look in his eyes which she couldn’t refuse, so, in the waning light, she followed him along a sodden footpath, allowing him to her hold her hand occasionally, to steady her when her foot slipped in the thick mud. The sky burned in shades of red and orange near the horizon to the West, bleeding into a deep blue to the East as they followed the reed-covered edge of a waterway. They walked for perhaps fifteen minutes in silence before Severus halted.</p><p> </p><p>‘Here,’ he said, looking out at the view in front of them. They had followed the path up a slight incline which offered a panorama of the flat land below, blanketed, as it was, in a soft mist. The sunset reflected its flames across the expanse of water, silhouetting the tall reeds and grasses against its glow. The ground was drier here and Severus indicated that she should sit beside him on the little hillock. ‘Now we wait,’ he said, offering no further explanation.</p><p> </p><p>They sat cross-legged, in silence, for what seemed a long time, a cold wind blowing hair across their eyes and chilling their bones. Hermione wanted to ask what it was they were waiting for but didn’t want to stifle the anticipation that emanated from Severus. ‘“Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?”’ she said instead. He turned his head, frowned. ‘It’s a quotation from <em>I Capture the Castle,</em>’ she elaborated.</p><p> </p><p>‘I know,’ he replied, ‘I think I know every word of that book off by heart, even if I don’t realise it.’ The corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile before faltering. ‘You… you don’t think this is romantic?’ he then asked, his tone tentative, suddenly worried.</p><p> </p><p>She began to respond when he hushed her with a hand on her thigh. ‘Look,’ he whispered and she followed his gaze over the marshes to where, suddenly, in the distance, a dark shadow had risen out of the reeds, blackness against the bronze of the evening sky. It swirled and drifted like smoke, growing in size at it swooped and quivered in the air. It was accompanied by a cacophony of tweets and chirps and Hermione realised it wasn’t a shadow at all.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… my,’ she managed, awestruck. ‘Birds?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Starling murmurations.’</p><p> </p><p>She watched the rhythmic pattern of the birds in stunned silence, her hand subconsciously falling atop Severus’s on her leg, gripping him as if in need of reassurance that this was real and not a dream. She didn’t have the vocabulary to do it justice**. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, meekly, her voice barely more than a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he agreed, quiet and self-conscious. He waited, watching the mournful dance of the starlings for a long moment, before continuing. ‘I… I just like the way they move, all in unison like that. The signals between them are unspoken and yet… they all know exactly what to do, where they fit. No one is entirely sure why they meet like this, but they think it’s to confuse predators; safety in numbers.’</p><p> </p><p>He paused again and Hermione looked sideways at him, watching his dark eyes follow the undulations of the birds’ formations. She felt something shift in him then and he tore his gaze away from the starlings to look at her.</p><p> </p><p>He swallowed. ‘That’s how I feel about <em>you</em>,’ he continued, almost inaudibly. ‘I’m useless, I know, at telling you how I feel so… so, I’ve been wanting to… show you this and hoped that…’ he looked away from her again, not back at the murmurations, but at the ground.</p><p> </p><p>‘That I would understand?’</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, then muttered, ‘stupid,’ shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she said, for she understood perfectly. It <em>was</em> like they were dancing to music only the two of them could hear, like they understood the unspoken in one another, and that nothing, nobody, could touch them when they were together; safety in numbers indeed.</p><p> </p><p>Her heart pounding against her ribcage she reached up and brushed the bottom of his chin with her fingertips, turning his head so he was looking at her again, then she reached up and drew him into a kiss. They pulled away mutually, and looked into one another’s eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘I feel exactly the same,’ she said, eventually. ‘You <em>know</em> I do.’</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled deeply and then issued her that crooked smile she so adored. She linked her arm through his and, like that, side-by-side, they continued to watch the starlings dance their dance.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry for being so shit today,’ he said, at length. ‘I don’t know what it is, why I get these moods I can’t shake.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It does bother me,’ she replied, regrettably; sometimes it did feel like it shouldn’t be <em>this</em> hard. ‘You keep things bottled up and then explode. It’s not good.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll try harder.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, you do that,’ she said, squeezing his arm.</p><p> </p><p>‘And that stuff I mentioned earlier-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-a conversation for another day, probably.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah… probably…’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded. The gesture of bringing her here today, of telling her, in his own way, the depth of his feelings for her, was enough for now; she did not want him making promises, of marriage, children, or anything else, that he might not be able to keep. None of that seemed so significant at the moment; he, Severus Snape, was enough and if Hermione had been waiting for a sign that he trusted in their future together, then this had to be it.</p><p> </p><p>‘So, how long have you been coming here?’ she asked, keen to change the subject.</p><p> </p><p>‘Since after Azkaban. Sometimes I need to be somewhere like this - vast and open - otherwise I start to feel… claustrophobic, almost. Cokeworth, Hogwarts, Azkaban… they were all prisons in their own way. Here, walking, foraging… the murmurations… <em>that</em> is freedom.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then I’m glad you have this, your safe place, and I’m glad you felt you could share it with me,’ she said. ‘Although… you know, it proves I’ve been right about one thing all along…’</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That you <em>are</em> a twitcher!’ she chuckled, recalling the first time she had gone to Spinner’s End, the copy of <em>Birds of the British Isles and their Eggs</em> he had carelessly left open on the side table, and his embarrassment at being caught in his rather drab hobby. She understood now that he was only so temperamental, snapping the book shut and snapping at her, because she had been so absolutely right and he would never have wanted her knowing these truths about him then, hadn’t wanted her knowing he was a real person. Such a contrast to this evening.</p><p> </p><p>‘I prefer <em>ornithologist</em>,’ he grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He felt lighter as they tramped back through marshes after the murmurations had died away. He may have reached this point a little later than Hermione, but it felt, finally, like the last piece had slotted into place.</p><p> </p><p>She had conceded, in the end, to him staying with her at the farm that evening; he’d convinced her with dexterous hands and kisses so deep she was left panting as they’d stood on the hillock as the moon rose in the sky. ‘There’s more where that came from,’ he whispered urgently in her ear, ‘one last birthday present.’ He had smirked down into those large brown eyes, knowing he could break her resolve, until she had shaken her head, rolled her eyes at him, and Apparated them back to the clearing at the end of the dirt track.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t sure if it was from trudging through the marshes, perhaps the sudden drop in the temperature, the slight incline of the dirt track, or his still not being quite sober, but they were only half-way back to the house when his lungs began to protest. What began as a barely audible wheeze, progressed quickly into such coughs as were impossible to disguise; he stood, doubled-over, gasping for air between each violent hack.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m fine,’ he croaked. He could barely stand Hermione’s mithering, her soothing Healer tones and the gentle hand on his back, even though he knew she meant well. He didn’t want her seeing him like this.</p><p> </p><p>Once they got back to the farm he made his way to the bathroom and cleared his throat of spittle and phlegm, spitting into the sink. It was only as he turned on the tap that he noticed the reddish hue the beastly mix of bodily fluids had assumed; only as he cupped his hands to ladle water into his mouth, that he tasted the familiar metallic flavour of his own blood.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Whitby is quite famous for its jet.</p><p>** A bit like me!</p><p>A/N In my head, this is the end of ‘Part One,’ although, in fact, this story is not divided into parts at all. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with it so far, has given kudos, commented, and subscribed. We still have a long way to go, so I hope you’ll hang about…</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. And So, A Year Passed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And so, a year passed.</p><p> </p><p>It passed in the way years do; drifting leisurely one moment and yet moving with disconcerting swiftness the next, like memories viewed through a pensieve.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They settle into a new rhythm. Hermione finds her feet at King Arthur’s and Severus fixes up the farm. They don’t see each other as much as either of them would like, but it only makes them treasure the time they do have together all the more. Every time they meet they reach for one another with renewed yearning, there is fresh passion in their kisses, a stronger ache of desire; always like they are making up for lost time.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers the one-year anniversary of the first time she’d gone to Spinner’s End and buys him a Mars Bar to commemorate it. He kisses her later tasting of caramel and nougat.</p><p> </p><p>She sits with him on Hallowe’en, stops him drinking himself to oblivion. He never speaks of Lily but on this night, at least, Hermione knows he thinks of her. He becomes pensive and sad; she knows he has been to the marshes, knows he has been wandering the streets of Cokeworth, the places he used to go as a boy with <em>her</em>, with Lily. Hermione isn’t sure how it makes her feel that he still longs for Lily this way; it seems unfair that she competes for his affections with a woman who has been dead for almost thirty-years.</p><p> </p><p>Come Guy Fawkes Night there’s a pile of kindling in the courtyard, the rubbish Severus has cleared from the house, reaching almost as high as the outhouse roofs. Hermione ignites it with a subtle <em>incendio</em> and stands arm-in-arm with Severus, the flames dancing in their eyes. She has fashioned a macabre effigy of the eponymous conspirator out of a pumpkin and some of Severus’s old clothes. They watch it burn, inhale the scent of the smoky air, and across the expansive veil of darkness beyond the meadow, other bonfires dot the rolling hillsides* and fireworks glitter in the sky.</p><p> </p><p>‘It feels like a fresh start, all that stuff gone,’ Hermione says, looking past the fire to where Monica and Wendell stand, holding hands. ‘<em>They’re</em> better for it.’</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t reply but she feels his eyes on her. She knows what he wants to say, he wants to temper her hopes, beseech her to be as pragmatic about her parents’ prospects as she is about all other things, but he remains silent, perhaps just holds her a little tighter.</p><p> </p><p>Her colleagues at the hospital are working on spells that tantalise the hippocampus, that tease forgotten memories from the mind’s gloomiest depths. She thinks they might be promising and she tells Severus as much. He just nods and offers her a sympathetic smile. She refuses to be discouraged.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Winter dawns, heralded by morning frost on the meadow and a low sun that offers little warmth. Severus forages along the farm’s nearby hedgerows; blackberries, chestnuts, and sloes. Monica is rather taken with him, likes to mother him, feed and water him. She bakes a blackberry pie with his hoard, and they roast chestnuts in the log burner.</p><p> </p><p>He enjoys her maternal ministrations, has always sought this, he realises, from Minerva and Poppy and now Monica. He thinks of Eileen, withering in Willow Court; she doesn’t remember him at all now. He still sits at her bedside and holds her gnarled hand from time-to-time, but he could be anyone. There is one occasion when she wakes to find him there and screams until he leaves, mistaking him for Tobias. After that, he doesn’t visit so often.</p><p> </p><p>He drags out the work that needs doing at the farm, worried that once he’s finished he won’t have an excuse to be there so often, but Hermione ensnares him anyway, with grey afternoons spent reading in the orangery, her feet rested on his lap; with late mornings in bed, her trembling under his touch or her hand curled around his dick; and with long walks through drizzle-soaked fields, where they hold hands and kiss beneath the branches of the yew where she first disclosed the depth of her affections.</p><p> </p><p>Crookshanks takes to him too, curls up on his knee whilst he and Hermione sit reading together. Severus finds himself absently stroking the cat’s ginger fur. Hermione watches the pair of them with a bemused expression, one that says <em>I told you you’d end up loving him too</em>. Severus scowls and shoos the beast away, brushing the ginger hairs from his trousers. Until next time.</p><p> </p><p>Severus’s chest gets worse and he blames the cold weather. He can tell by her face that she doesn’t believe him; she reserves an expression of mingled concern and frustration for these occasions when his body is wracked with convulsive coughs. Her patience thins.</p><p> </p><p>‘Won’t you please see a Healer? Just for a check-up?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Stop fussing.’</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes his hands are left covered in pink spotting, which he stares at, despondently, and then wipes away, and some nights, after sex, he lays awake, long after she has fallen asleep, feeling his heart pound almost painfully in his chest, knowing it can’t be right, that it shouldn’t be beating so fast.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t notice any of this, not yet, and if he feels guilty for deceiving her, he reassures himself, thinly, that it’s for her own good.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>At Christmas, Severus falls asleep in front of the television, his belly and heart full. They had managed something quite traditional, despite the usual chaos that abounded at the farm. Hermione had received her usual copy of <em>I Capture the Castle</em> from Wendell and she’d spent the late morning reading aloud to Severus in the orangery as the rain <em>pitter-pattered</em> against the glass roof. They’d feasted on turkey and all the trimmings, followed by two helpings each of Christmas pudding.</p><p> </p><p>He wakes from his nap when the settee dips beside him, opening heavy eyes to see Hermione looking down at him smilingly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you have a good day?’ she asks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he replied, yawning, ‘I never had a Christmas with, you know… <em>family</em> before.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m glad then… Mon and Dell have gone to bed…’ She crawls a hand up the inside of Severus’s shirt, her intentions clear in the glint in her eye.</p><p> </p><p>He stills her with his own hand placed over hers: ‘Can’t. I’ve eaten too much,’ he says, frowning.</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s what Christmas is for,’ she replied, patting the little dome of his stomach, perhaps a tad more pronounced than it had been this time last year.</p><p> </p><p>‘I <em>used</em> to have a six pack, you know?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Did you? I’m sure it was very becoming,’ she chuckled, stroking the line of hair below his naval. ‘People put on weight when they’re happy,’ she said, ‘when they’re content,’ she added.</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that so?’ he asked. He pulls her down into a deep kiss but concedes, regretfully, that he is too full to do more. She laughs at him and snuggles at his side, nibbling After Eights and sipping cocoa. They watch <em>The Vicar of Dibley</em>, which Severus tries not to laugh at.</p><p> </p><p>He does not laugh the next day, either, when she goes to Harry and Ginny’s Boxing Day party without him.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They make it their New Years’ resolution to eat more healthily, get fit. Hermione feels like she makes the same resolution every year; Severus has never made a resolution before. He lasts perhaps three days before he’s convincing her, not that she takes much persuading, that they’ve earned a take-away.</p><p> </p><p>He complains endlessly about the winter cold and she moans a little about work. They sit by the fire at the farm, him rubbing her aching feet after long shifts. He watches her as she watches the television. She often finds him watching her, in fact; furtively, when he thinks she won’t notice. His expression in those moments is cryptic. When she catches him she expects him to look away, but he just smiles. It means something, and though she isn’t sure what, she likes the way it warms her from the inside.</p><p> </p><p>She also catches him smoking and snatches the cigarette from his mouth before he’s had chance to light it. ‘I <em>hate</em> this,’ she hisses at him, ‘this is why you can hardly breathe. It’ll kill you.’</p><p> </p><p>He says he’s sorry, says he’ll stop. All the things he’s said whenever she’s caught him before. The same things he’ll say the next time she catches him.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Wendell tells Severus about the little girl who haunts him; it makes Severus increasingly unsettled to see the man about the house and grounds, muttering under his breath, laughing at some unspoken joke. Sometimes, when she doesn’t come to Wendell in these strange daydreams, when he searches Withy Copse and the meadow all day and still she does not come, Severus finds him curled up, childlike and sobbing. It feels like this is happening more frequently; Monica absences herself, avoids the upset.</p><p> </p><p>When Severus tells Hermione, she inhales steadily, as though trying not to cry, and then tells him it won’t be long until she has an answer. She brings home books from the hospital library, pours over them at the kitchen table, sipping red wine, until the early hours of the morning, or he wakes alone in their bed in the dead of night and shuffles downstairs to find her asleep in the dimly lit living room, books and other papers spread across the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>‘Bed,’ he commands, rousing her with a hand on her shoulder. She mumbles something incoherent but acquiesces and allows him to guide her upstairs into bed.</p><p> </p><p>She comes home from work one day and tells him that her colleagues’ research has stalled; there have been issues with their test subjects conjuring false memories. Some of their reactions have been violent, irrevocable. <em>She inhales steadily, as though trying not to cry</em>. He bites back his lingering reservations.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus refuses to celebrate his forty-seventh birthday. He complains of a searing headache and she believes that he’s lying.</p><p> </p><p>‘Such a grump,’ she teases him.</p><p> </p><p>But he spends the day in a darkened room at Spinner’s End. He vomits into the toilet from the pain and is sat on the bathroom floor catching his breath when he hears her downstairs, back from her shift. He scrambles to his feet, but he’s unsteady, light-headed, and she’s faster.</p><p> </p><p>‘You look terrible,’ she says, and he hates the sympathy in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks,’ he grumbles. She smiles and helps him back to bed then nurses him the rest of the evening, makes him eat soup and drink lots of fluids. He feels better the next day and with the back of her hand pressed against his forehead to gauge his temperature, she concludes he must have had some twenty-four bug.</p><p> </p><p>‘Must have,’ he agrees, knowing better; this is not the first headache, nor will it be the last.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>He approaches her, one day at the end of January, with that same expression he’d used to wear, where he looks like he wants to ask her something but can’t find the words. Eventually, he speaks,</p><p>and it is the first time he asks how it might be if they told people about them. <em>I’m not ready, not yet</em>, he says. <em>Just wondering</em>, he says.</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s brought this on?’ she replies.</p><p> </p><p>He holds up a letter from Minerva and when she asks what it says he just mutters, ‘the usual,’ whatever that means, then, ‘just made me think.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione presumes McGonagall requests to meet him and now presumes he’s inclined to give it some consideration. She masks the flutter of hope she feels inside her. Lying to her friends, by omission or otherwise, has grown tiresome and <em>they</em> have grown suspicious. They wonder why she often can’t meet with them anymore and, on the rare occasions they visit Withy Copse, they have found things that belong to Severus; his boots by the door, his jacket on the hook. Hermione tries to convince them they’re Wendell’s but when they see Wendell in his wax coat and wellington boots, so different in style and size, they issue her sceptical frowns. On one occasion Monica wandered in on them, mentioned something about Hermione’s boyfriend, and Hermione had to laugh it off, say that Monica was mistaken, leaving her mother looking hurt and more confused than usual.</p><p> </p><p>They’re at Spinner’s End and Severus paces about the small kitchen like a caged animal before throwing McGonagall’s letter on the countertop and then leaning against it, breathing deeply. He is clearly conflicted. Hermione stands and wraps her arms around his middle from behind; she rests her forehead between his shoulder blades and plants a kiss against his spine. ‘If we were to tell people,’ she says, softly, ‘there would be a bit of a rumbling, I suspect. But then it would pass.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Aren’t you embarrassed?’ he asks with a sigh.</p><p> </p><p>‘Of?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of… of me.’</p><p> </p><p>She releases her grip on him and makes him turn to face her, makes him look her in the eye. ‘Not in the slightest,’ she says, quite forcefully.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hm,’ he mutters, ‘and you’re supposed to be intelligent.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiles up at him. ‘The brightest witch of my age, some might say.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Who said that?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Err… Remus.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus made a noise which suggested he didn’t trust Remus Lupin’s assessment.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t,’ Hermione said, a little warning in her tone; his derision whenever any of her friends are mentioned is something else that’s grown tiresome. ‘Will you reply to McGonagall’s letter?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She worries she might be pregnant and he sits with her on the edge of the bath, waiting for a faint line - one or two; he’s read the box perhaps a hundred times - to appear. He bites his nails and absently she reaches a hand up to stop him. They don’t discuss what result they’re each hoping for but are both apparently relieved when it’s negative, which is enough to tell them they’re not ready. He silently wonders whether he ever will be. She cries, though she isn’t sure why, and he holds her until the tears stop. They feel distant from one another for a few days after that, but slowly things return to normal, only they’re more careful, for a time.</p><p> </p><p>They never do have a conversation about marriage or children; are always meaning to, but the time never seems right or they’re always waiting for the other to initiate it. Or are avoiding it.</p><p> </p><p>At the start of Spring, Ginny has her baby; a boy named James.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus is in the attic when he finds an old photograph album. He flicks through it looking at sepia images of a young couple; Monica with hair as wild as Hermione’s, and Dell with a trim figure and lively spark in his eye. They went on holidays, to parties with friends, and fancy balls with the British Dentistry Association. They had a little girl, who nestles in their arms across various photographs, that they doted on uncompromisingly; Hermione is pictured as a tiny baby in her Moses basket, as a toddler taking her first, wobbly steps, and as a beaming child in an oversized Muggle school uniform, book bag in hand. The album tells of a happy lifetime that has been stolen from them.</p><p> </p><p>Severus presents Hermione with the album when she gets home from work. She’d told him about Wendell burning the others and she weeps with gratitude. She looks through the pictures and can’t help but compare it with what she has left of her parents now. Wendell is worse than ever; he talks of nothing but the girl, sits rocking back and forth, muttering under his breath about her. Severus squeezes her shoulder, like he knows what she’s thinking, and she sequesters the album in a more secure location, somewhere it won’t tug at her conscience, and somewhere Wendell won’t find it.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They argue about nothing and everything. They bicker over silly things – her nagging, his bad habits and grumpiness - and later they’ll laugh about it. But there are also great tempests, where they scream and shout at one another, say things they’ll regret after. Then Severus will retreat to Spinner’s End to sulk, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. He’ll worry that this time it really will be the end for them and traipse sheepishly back to the farm to apologise or she’ll knock on the door at Spinner’s End, say it’s all her fault, and fall into his arms.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>On the ninth anniversary of the final battle, Hermione takes the train to Hogsmeade to meet Harry and Ron. There is a soft sun in the cloud-dotted sky, but it is windy and unseasonably cold; she wraps her travelling cloak more tightly around her shoulders as she steps out onto the platform. The village is eerily quiet and they see no one as they begin their aimless wanderings.</p><p> </p><p>‘Doesn’t get any easier, does it?’ Ron says. It’s the same thing he says every year but the inanity of it irrationally irks Hermione this time. She wants to ask him what he expects, why he thinks it should be easier, why he doesn’t think they deserve to suffer like this, year on year, but she bites her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s changed for me now I have James,’ Harry tries to explain. ‘I’d always wished things could have been different, but if they had, he might not be here, which only makes me feel guilty, like I’m saying I’m glad it all happened the way it did, which I’m not… I don’t know…’ he trails off frowningly, overwhelmed.</p><p> </p><p>‘You can’t think like that,’ Hermione replies, quietly. She thinks of Severus and what a lifetime of that sort of thinking – an endless cycle of blame and guilt - has done to him. ‘You’ll drive yourself crazy.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Pub time, I think,’ Ron says, breaking the solemn atmosphere; it’s the first sensible thing he’s said all day.</p><p> </p><p>They have arranged to meet McGonagall in The Three Broomsticks for lunch, to discuss plans for the memorial event next year; it does them good, Hermione thinks, to have something productive to focus their energy on. When they enter, glad of the warmth, the headmistress is waiting for them in one of the booth tables.</p><p> </p><p>‘When we last met,’ the older witch begins, after they’ve order their food, ‘we spoke of building a tradition around the anniversary, a way of passing on our stories from one generation to the next. I don’t know what you’ll think of the idea but I thought, perhaps, we could borrow from oral lore, invite survivors tell their stories in person.’</p><p> </p><p>They all agree it seems fitting. Hermione suggests they get a scribe quill to write down, word for word, everyone’s story, they can make a book of it too, split the proceeds between the various charities that were set up to support the survivors and their families. Harry says he has the money to commission a monument, something that will sit in the castle grounds.</p><p> </p><p>Their food arrives and they eat it reminiscing about their happier times at Hogwarts, divulging some of their more controversial antics to a headmistress who must feign being unamused. Ron and Harry laugh about the time Hermione stole polyjuice ingredients from the potions store. McGonagall catches Hermione’s eye; Hermione shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, and averts her gaze.</p><p> </p><p>As they’re leaving, Minerva grabs Hermione’s sleeve and pulls her away from the boys. ‘Severus…’ she whispers, with urgency. ‘He still doesn’t write.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m so sorry. Perhaps he isn’t ready.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re still in communication with him?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione closes her eyes briefly, sighs. ‘Yes,’ she responds, doubting that is what Severus would want her to say.</p><p> </p><p>‘How is he?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione thinks of the way he smiles sleepily at her when she kisses him awake in the mornings, how he gets breathless strolling through the meadow, how he tilts his head to the side as he plays with her curls, how he’s started taking naps most afternoons, how patient he is with Monica, and how he complains that he’s cold, even when it’s warm.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fine,’ she replies, unconvincing even to her own ears. ‘He’s fine.’</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall nods. ‘Please ask him again if he’ll see me. I’d like to invite him – in person – to the anniversary next year. His story would be invaluable to the collection.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I will,’ Hermione replies, knowing it will be futile.</p><p> </p><p>‘Will you tell him that… that he is missed? That we think of him often?’ the older witch adds; her expression so sad Hermione could never refuse.</p><p> </p><p>‘I will.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione is miserable when she returns to Withy Copse that night. It’s late but she texts Severus and he arrives the farm within minutes. They lay together in the middle of the bed, just holding one another. She tells him about McGonagall’s idea, how she’d like to meet with him to discuss it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Absolutely fucking not,’ he replies into the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They’re sat beneath the yew tree by the barley field the second time he brings up the subject of telling people about them.</p><p> </p><p>‘Who?’ he asks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry, Ginny, and Ron. Just my closest friends.’</p><p> </p><p>He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘But they’ll tell others.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>As the weather improves, Severus makes a start on the outside of the farm; they sell the old machinery and equipment as scrap, he cleans out the outhouses and the barn.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione encourages him to start a garden, to grow the fruit, vegetables, berries, and herbs that he likes to forage. He likes the idea of self-sufficiency, living off the land, depending on no one. He also grows dittany, moly, moondew, aconite, and boom berries, as well as other things used in healing potions. <em>Just in case</em>, he thinks, as he guzzles paracetamol for his headaches.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione attends Ron and Talia’s wedding. She’s only invited to the evening reception, which suits her fine. They’ve opted for something a little more upscale than The Burrow and it takes place at some stately home once belonging to a now extinct branch of The Sacred Twenty-Eight; Hermione wouldn’t have said it was to Ron’s tastes at all but he looks to be enjoying himself, dancing with his bride.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione sits with Harry and Ginny, has a turn at bouncing James on her knee. Her thoughts turn, as these events always seem to make them, to her own prospects. She muses on the past eighteen-months, how truly wonderful they have been, but there’s been a nagging feeling of late, which she can no longer dismiss, that they don’t seem to be progressing; she senses Severus’s satisfaction with their arrangement but wonders if it will be enough for her in the long-term. It’s like they’re under a stasis charm and the most obvious barrier to moving forwards is people not knowing about them.</p><p> </p><p>Later that night she bids farewell to the bride and groom with new resolve in her heart.</p><p> </p><p>‘I missed you,’ she said, the next time she sees Severus, stretching up to kiss him, her tongue sliding through his parted lips.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he mumbles against her mouth, pulling back briefly to ask, ‘how much?’</p><p> </p><p>She takes his hand and, with a mischievous smirk, leads him upstairs. Closing and warding the bedroom door behind them she kisses him again, walking him backwards to the bed, where they fall in a jumble of limbs and creaking springs. Straddling him she sits back on her knees, divests herself of her t-shirt and unbuttons her jeans. She runs a hand up Severus’s crotch and he groans pleasurably, already hard and ready for her.</p><p> </p><p>She leans over him again. ‘Oh, you missed me too,’ she murmurs into his ear, kissing him more forcefully while his hands run down her back, to her hips, and then her arse. He grips her and flips them so he’s now above her, the one in control. He glides his hand up the length of her arm and pins it, gripping her wrist, above her head. His own trousers are unzipped and slid to his knees and he pulls Hermione’s clothing out of the way too. He plants kisses on her breasts as his spare hand touches her in practiced ways and he positions himself at her entrance.</p><p> </p><p>He meets her gaze and then pushes inside her. Her hips roll to meet him and she has to bite her lip to stop herself screaming. He thrusts deeply with rhythmic momentum; she’s close, and she can tell by his expression and soft moans that he is too. ‘I think,’ she pants, ‘we need to tell people about us.’ She hadn’t necessarily intended to do it in that moment, but he had undone her, reminded her she wants this forever.</p><p> </p><p>His movements slow, just slightly, as he takes in what she’s said. ‘You pick your fucking moments,’ he grunts. Then, with three precise and measured thrusts, they come together with a mutual groan of satisfaction. He falls to one side, closes his eyes and catches his breath.</p><p> </p><p>She recovers more quickly, turning to face him and propping herself up on an elbow. He opens his eyes and when he sees her there, smiling down at him, he sighs. ‘You can never again accuse me of Slytherin tactics,’ he says, ‘when <em>you</em> are the one pulling stunts like that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that a yes?’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Her friends, Harry, Ron, and Ginny, sit staring at her. She had invited them to the farm, had prepared a little lunch, and had prepared to tell them the truth about Severus. She’d wanted to wait until Ron’s jokes about her being single riled her up to the point of eruption, but in the end the words had just tumbled clumsily from her mouth. Their chatter had stopped and they each turned to look at her incredulously, questioningly, aghast. She nods to affirm they have heard her correctly.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s a joke,’ Harry says. It’s a statement but still, his tone is unsure and the smile that flickers across his features is faltering.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>She tells them about the hospital wing, about <em>I Capture the Castle</em>, about the corner shop, Cokeworth, and Spinner’s End. She tells them how Severus helped her with her potions exam, how she lived with him over the summer, about Whitby and her parents. She tells them how she loves him.</p><p> </p><p>Now they stare at her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Have you lost your mind?’ Ron eventually says, ripping apart the tension. His words invoke a deluge: ‘he’s twice your age, an ex-Death Eater, a murderer…’ Ron counts the indictments off on his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>Harry picks up the onslaught: ‘he was vile to you at school. To all of us. Do I need to remind you of the things he used to say and do…’ but he pauses because Hermione is softly laughing. ‘<em>What</em>?’ he demands.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just… that’s exactly what he said you’d say.’</p><p> </p><p>Harry ignores her. ‘Do I need to remind you of “<em>I see no difference</em>?”’ he asks.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione blanched at the memory; she had seldom felt so humiliated. She did not need reminding, no. ‘He’s not the same person,’ she said, ‘just like <em>we’re </em>not either. He’s caring and protective and funny…’ She wants to tell them all about him, all about <em>her</em> Severus, but they barely let her talk.</p><p> </p><p>They argue for perhaps half an hour and then Ginny, speaking for the first time, suggests she, Harry, and Ron should leave. The boys comply, issuing Hermione hurt and angry looks. Ginny takes Hermione’s hand and tells her that she doesn’t understand but she’ll always be there for her, no matter what.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Every morning now Severus swings his legs over the side of the bed and, bent double, clutching his abdomen, coughs until his airways are clear. Hermione puts a comforting hand on his back, at first, but after a time she seems cautious.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s getting worse,’ she says, tentatively. ‘Perhaps it’s time to see that Healer.’ When he refuses again she asks whether it is out of stubbornness or fear.</p><p> </p><p>‘Neither,’ he protests, bitingly, ‘it is out of lack of necessity.’ He stands and makes his way to the bathroom and she feels powerless. She hears him retching through the closed door and spitting something into the toilet bowl.</p><p> </p><p>Her reticence in challenging him is bordering on negligence, she knows, but he is so prickly about it and she doesn’t want to push him away, make him more secretive. She keeps a closer eye on him.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>They begin the summer with languid strolls about the fields and picnics in the meadow. They sit by the river, not saying much but listening to the sound of the water and chirruping birds. The garden blossoms and Hermione helps Severus harvest his first crops; he seems rather pleased with himself and it pleases her to see him enjoying himself. They eat meals on the patio in the dying light and he takes her hand, drawing circles on her palm with his thumb.</p><p> </p><p>‘What are you thinking when you look at me like that,’ she finally finds the courage to ask him when she catches him with that strange expression on his face again.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing,’ he replies with a clandestine smirk, ‘perhaps just pinching myself.’</p><p> </p><p>Middays in July are always too hot, the air heavy and stifling, and they seek shade in the farm, opening the living room windows wide so that the breeze causes the voile curtains to flutter. They’re reading in there one afternoon, on adjacent settees, when Hermione sees a figure moving up the track. No one comes to the farm uninvited, other than her friends that time – Hermione had been to the village shop and overheard some teens refer to it as ‘The Radley Place,’ which she hoped would keep them away; when she’d told Severus, he had understood the reference only because he remembers, in that eerie way that he does, her reading <em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em> to him in the hospital wing. Undeniably, however, someone comes now, a dot which grows larger and more distinct as it gets closer, a dot which has unruly, dark hair and black-rimmed glasses.</p><p> </p><p>‘Where are you going?’ Severus asks, looking up from his book as Hermione stands and marks her page.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just stay there,’ she replies, almost commandingly, sweeping past him and out into the hallway. There’s a knock at the door and Severus moves to look out of the window at who it might be. ‘Harry,’ he hears Hermione say, ‘what are you doing here?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve been sent as an envoy, of sorts,’ he says, ‘to… talk.’</p><p> </p><p>‘To try and talk some sense into me, you mean? Make me see reason?’ she snaps.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve not come to argue.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Harry…’ she says, not in the mood.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just hear me out?’</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. ‘I won’t change my mind about anything, about… <em>him</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>It is with reluctance that she stands back and lets him in. She leads him down the hallway to the kitchen, pulling shut the living room door as she goes. He sits down in one of the chairs at the table. She doesn’t offer him a drink and instead stands leaning against the countertop, arms folded across her chest, expression expectant.</p><p> </p><p>‘We’re just worried, Hermione,’ Harry began. ‘I don’t think you would have kept it a secret if you didn’t think there was something for us to worry about.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’d have told you a year ago if it had been up to me,’ she replied, with a dismissive wave of her hand.</p><p> </p><p>‘He made you lie to us, your friends. That’s not…’ he paused, searching for the word, ‘healthy,’ he finally decided on.</p><p> </p><p>‘He didn’t <em>make</em> me do anything. I did it willingly because I care about him. You don’t understand.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then help me to, Hermione, because this just isn’t you. You’re <em>not</em> someone who lies to their friends or sneaks around. You’re not someone who settles or puts up with nonsense.’ Despite Harry’s calm tones, his fist is balled, his knuckles white, and he thuds it against the wooden table to punctuate each utterance; his anger thinly concealed.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione thinks she hears a floorboard creek outside the kitchen door and her gaze flickers in that direction before settling back on Harry. ‘People do strange things for love,’ she replies, looking at him challengingly now.</p><p> </p><p>‘Love? That’s what he tells you it is?’</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, bites her bottom lip. ‘It is,’ she replies, with no trace of doubt.</p><p> </p><p>‘For God’s sake, Hermione! You can’t trust him.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Keep your voice down… You don’t know him like I do,’ she protests.</p><p> </p><p>‘I know enough of how people like him think. It’s my job to know. I know he’s devious and a liar, cruel, he has a temper, he’s violent-’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione hears another rustle beyond the threshold of the kitchen. It might be Crookshanks she thinks, or rather hopes.</p><p> </p><p>‘-Is… is he here now?’ Harry then asked, glancing over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re being weird, like you don’t want to be overheard. You keep looking over at the door. He’s here, isn’t he?’</p><p> </p><p>He looks back at her and she doesn’t need to say anything, her uncomfortableness gives her away, as she shifts from one foot to the other.</p><p> </p><p>‘I would never hurt her,’ a small voice then sounds from the other end of the room. She looks up as Harry spins around in his chair and then jumps up, as though he doesn’t like the idea of having his back to Severus. For it is Severus, of course, who has emerged from the hallway, hands tucked in his pockets, head low. He is shorter than Harry, smaller in stature, less vigorous; Hermione always thinks of him as being tall, and strong, but the contrast is stark. Severus looks up at them through curtains of greying hair.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus…’ Hermione breathes, somewhat pleadingly. She doesn’t want a confrontation, she wants Harry to leave, her and Severus to go back to reading their books.</p><p> </p><p>‘What a surprise,’ Harry sneers when he finds his voice. ‘Snape, lurking in the shadows, listening to other people’s conversations.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus thinks how once, him lurking in the shadows and listening to other people’s conversations might have saved Potter’s life. He wants to remind the boy of that, wants to spit it at him with all the re-emerging anger and resentment he feels just at the sight of him. But he doesn’t; it isn’t so important right now. He schools his features, refusing to meet Potter’s eye, and a silence stretches between them.</p><p> </p><p>‘You don’t have anything to say for yourself?’ Potter then asks. ‘You don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you. I want to know what you’re playing at.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t need to justify myself to <em>you</em>,’ Severus snarls back.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus…’ Hermione attempts to beseech him into quietude again, but he isn’t paying her any attention.</p><p> </p><p>He looks up at Harry again. ‘You said, once, that you owed me,’ he says, his voice quiet but clear.</p><p> </p><p>‘And <em>you</em> said I owed you nothing,’ Harry retorts.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m calling in the debt. Let us be.’</p><p> </p><p>Harry met his gaze determinedly. ‘I thought you were in love with my mum? <em>Always</em>?’</p><p> </p><p>Severus glances at Hermione, his cheeks burning pink and his jaw clenched. Hermione looks back at him with confused, tear-filled eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘You need to leave,’ Severus said, turning back to Potter, his voice is quiet and his tone even, though it carries an unspoken threat.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s not your house,’ Harry retorts.</p><p> </p><p>‘Either he leaves or I leave,’ Severus says, looking at Hermione imploringly now.</p><p> </p><p>Harry scoffs. ‘He makes you choose,’ he tells Hermione, as if this proves some point he’s trying to make.</p><p> </p><p>‘Stop,’ she begs them, ‘just stop, both of you!’ They fall silent, both looking at her, waiting. ‘I will not choose, but Harry, you should go. I will come and see you soon, you and Ginny, and we’ll talk properly.’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>Fine</em>,’ Harry concedes after a long moment. His eyes flick over Severus, who glares back, and then he turns to Hermione again. ‘You know where we are if you need anything.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I won’t, but thank you,’ she replies.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses again, evidently reluctant to go, but then sighs despairingly and turns to leave. He brushes past Severus, who flinches despite himself and shrinks back against the kitchen wall. Harry seems to notice this, will undoubtedly infer from it that, at last, he has the upper hand. Hermione and Severus listen to Harry’s retreating footsteps, considering each other again only once the front door has slammed shut behind him.</p><p> </p><p>‘You didn’t exactly defend me,’ Severus says.</p><p> </p><p>‘And <em>you</em> didn’t deny undying love for Lily.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Minerva writes again at the end of August. She’s spoken to Harry. She <em>demands</em> to see Severus now. The friendly tone of her letters that had so warmed Severus before, has waned. He shows Hermione:</p><p> </p><p><em>‘… would never have guessed at the </em>nature<em> of your relationship… a student!... It doesn’t sit right with me… I need to see you… need to hear your side of the story…’</em></p><p> </p><p>‘What will you do?’ Hermione asks.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ignore it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You can’t. Not now.’</p><p> </p><p>And so, he finds himself entering a quiet café in the cobbled backstreets of Edinburgh; it is the most inconspicuous of places, modern and Muggle. He spots Minerva immediately, sat at a table in the corner and already nursing a large coffee. She stands as he approaches and her eyes run up and down the length of his body, taking him in, then she strides forwards wraps him in her arms. She has never done that before but he allows it, likes it even.</p><p> </p><p>‘I wasn’t convinced you would come.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Nor was I.’</p><p> </p><p>He takes a seat and orders a coffee of his own.</p><p> </p><p>She looks at him for a moment, sips her drink, and then says, ‘I had all these things I wanted to say and now they’ve quite gone out of my head… You look well.’</p><p> </p><p><em>If that’s true, it’s Hermione’s doing</em>, he thinks, but he merely nods in appreciation of her comment.</p><p> </p><p>‘Azkaban was..?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Horrific.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’ll bet. You never did send me that visiting order. Do you wish you had taken me up on my offer of Scholastic Sanctuary?’ Minerva asked, eyebrow raised.</p><p> </p><p>He smirks. ‘Sometimes,’ he eventually replies, ‘but then...’</p><p> </p><p>After a long pause, ‘but then you wouldn’t have met Hermione,’ Minerva finishes for him.</p><p> </p><p>He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, realising for the first time that his concern is that Minerva will think less of him; her opinion matters to him even if Potter’s doesn’t. He sighs. ‘Who knows? You did tell me to make a new life for myself.’</p><p> </p><p>‘This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind… Her friends are worried.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t care.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You should,’ Minerva said, admonishingly. ‘You <em>should</em> care what her friends think. They love her.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>‘You care for her?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Very much.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And you treat her well?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I try.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You make sure you do. She makes you happy?’</p><p> </p><p>‘More than anything.’</p><p> </p><p>Minerva shook her head, looking conflicted. ‘Why her?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t choose it. It just… <em>happened</em>. I know what people are saying about us, I know what they <em>think</em>, but…’ He pauses, sighs. He can’t say what he wants to, not to Minerva when he hasn’t even said it out loud properly to Hermione yet. ‘I didn’t know life could be like this and… and I ask myself, every day, what she’s doing with me, tell myself she deserves better, all those things… but… I don’t know, I can’t explain it, it’s just… right.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiles at him then, renewed warmth in her eyes, and he feels himself relax a little. ‘I know what it <em>sounds</em> like,’ she says. He just nods. ‘I suppose I can see some of the appeal,’ Minerva continues. ‘You’re an equal match in intelligence, I imagine you challenge one another in some respects and balance each other in others.’ Severus feels his mouth curve into a reluctant smile as he hears her assessment; she has it exactly right.</p><p> </p><p>They talk about more general things after that; they have a lot to catch up on. He tells her about his garden at the farm, she tells him about the school. They find things they can laugh about, odd memories from their time as colleagues, mostly in the years before Potter’s first year. They talk about Dumbledore, the way they’d stay up late in the staff room, marking essays and grumbling about his latest schemes. But their laughter turns to melancholy when they are reminded of their anger towards him for the way he treated them like pawns, or for what he asked of Severus, and this anger does not fit with their sadness that he is dead, that they both miss him.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’d like you to be at the memorial,’ Minerva then says.</p><p> </p><p>‘You know I can’t. I can’t <em>talk</em> about it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You wouldn’t have to. You could just be there. Tell me you’ll think about it.’</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her entreating expression but must disappoint her. ‘I can’t.’</p><p> </p><p>She nods. ‘OK… I can’t force you, but the invite is there. I should get back to the school. The students return next week, you’ll remember how busy it is this time of year.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not fondly.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she chuckled. ‘Severus, can I ask one more thing of you? Will you start responding to my letters?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I <em>will</em> think about that.’</p><p> </p><p>She gathers her belongings and he watches her leave, then he pulls his own jacket on and makes his way outside. As he walks through the wet streets of the city, ignorant of the crowds, smoking a cigarette, and not ready yet to face Hermione, he must swallow his resentment; <em>he</em> hadn’t wanted to tell people, <em>he</em> had known it would be like this – everyone with their opinions - when they did, <em>he</em> had been quite happy living his quiet, Muggle life. He wills himself not to, but he blames her.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Her birthday comes around again. ‘Twenty-eight,’ she murmurs, stretching as she wakes beside Severus this year.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he sounds, with a frown; he isn’t keen on being reminded of the age difference but, as she reaches beneath the sheets and below the waistband of his boxers, he recalls he does like to be reminded of the perks. He lets her stroke him for a moment, until he’s feeling more awake and then he stops her. ‘Nah,’ he says, ‘it’s <em>your</em> birthday. Allow me.’ And then he’s teasing her breasts and kissing along her clavicle…</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, he waits until she has gone to wash up before collapsing back onto the bed and cursing his aching muscles, his failing strength.</p><p> </p><p>Her friends visit her at the farm, just as they had done last year. Hermione refuses to send Severus away, but he rolls his eyes and takes himself off down the meadow, dragging Monica and Wendell along behind him. Harry watches them through the window of the orangery, then turns back to Hermione and shakes his head bewilderedly. It’s not the first time she’s seen her friends since Harry’s confrontation with Severus in the kitchen, if anything, she sees and hears from them more, like they’re checking up on her, but there is a pregnant heaviness in the air whenever they do meet each other now; they don’t mention him.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Over a year after starting at King Arthur’s, Hermione has a more active role in the research they’re carrying out. She bandies ideas about with Severus but gets frustrated when he seems to just be humouring her.</p><p> </p><p>‘I hope you prove me wrong,’ he tells her, earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>She does too because the deterioration in Wendell becomes seemingly more marked with each passing day. He ebbs closer towards the surface sometimes, is almost lucid, before shrinking back deeper than ever into his fantasy; he seems to recognise this in himself, which only make him angrier. Severus has become increasingly wary, less patient than he had been for he is not, by nature, a patient man.</p><p> </p><p>They forgo the bonfire and fireworks.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>When winter arrives it does not carry the same crisp brightness of the previous year; the skies are foreboding and the air is rent with a relentless chill carried on howling winds. As the bones of trees shed the last of their leaves, the landscape outside the windows of the farm is unforgiving. Severus retreats into himself; does less of the things he enjoys and seems to avoid her touch. Some days are better and he will take her hand, or play with her hair, but there is a lethargy and a pre-occupation in him that unsettles her. When she asks him about it he answers routinely that all is well.</p><p> </p><p>They manage some semblance of a normal Christmas again, though Wendell bristles with his strange energy. It is late when Severus lays down on the settee with his head on her lap and asks her to read this year’s edition of <em>I Capture the Castle</em> to him. She strokes strands of his hair behind his ear and concedes to his request, parts of it jumping out to her as they always do: ‘“Perhaps watching someone you love suffer can teach you even more than suffering yourself can.”’ She pauses after reading the line and looks down to see that he has fallen asleep.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus refuses to celebrate his forty-eighth birthday; he does not give an excuse and won’t be cajoled.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She remembers the time they hiked up Mam Tor and thinks they should do it again. He tries to dissuade, tells her it won’t be any fun in the rain. She buys pre-packed sandwiches like last time and they Apparate to the cave. Severus looks up to the summit and ignores the rising trepidation inside him.</p><p> </p><p>They are perhaps half-way up the side of the hill when he signals for her to stop; he moves off the footpath and sits heavily on a low dry stone wall. She watches him gasping, each inhalation looking painful and his hands trembling as he brings them to cover his mouth as those wet, chesty coughs tear through him.</p><p> </p><p>‘I can’t,’ he admits, when he’s caught his breath enough to speak.</p><p> </p><p>She moves to stand in front of him and runs a hand through his hair. ‘It’s OK. We’ll take it more slowly.’</p><p> </p><p>He looks up at her then shakes his head. ‘I can’t,’ he insists, croakily.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a deep breath which triggers another bout of coughing and when he’s done he spits onto the floor at her feet; a viscous, slimy gobbet the colour of garnet. She stares at it for a moment before fully comprehending what she’s looking at, like her brain doesn’t want to believe it.</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus… you need to see a Healer. We need to go now.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No, it’s fine,’ he says, struggling to be dismissive this time; the blood is thick and a deep red, not its usual pinkish hue. ‘It’ll pass.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You sound so sure.’ Her features change then, to anger. ‘Are you telling me… has this has happened before?’</p><p> </p><p>He looks up at her with an expression she has only seen him wear once before, in the moments before Nagini plunged her fangs into his neck; it is a look of such fear that Hermione feels chilled by it. ‘I want to go home,’ he says, shakily.</p><p> </p><p>Amidst her own terror, she hoists him up and Apparates them away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* This scene was very much inspired by Loreena McKennitt’s song ‘All Souls Night;’ the line ‘bonfires dot the rolling hillside’ is lifted from there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Immutable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione stands in the window of the living room at Spinner’s End, one arm folded across her breast, supporting the elbow of her other arm, which raises her hand to her face. She presses her thumb into her front teeth until it hurts, until deep indentations are left on its tip; an act that grounds her.</p><p> </p><p>Night has fallen, shrouding Cokeworth in a low fog which glows orange under the street lamps. She watches upstairs lights flick on in the houses opposite as the residents prepare for bed; people getting on with their lives while Hermione’s falls apart.</p><p> </p><p>She turns and observes Severus across the room, sat in his armchair. The room is illuminated only by the small lamp on the side table, and so his face is cast in shadow, though she sees a glint in those obsidian eyes and knows he is looking back at her.</p><p> </p><p>Her insides tremble but she does not fear she will cry; she has exhausted herself crying, it feels like all she has done for the past few hours, days, weeks, is cry. Now her tears have run dry.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well?’ she asked, her voice quivering.</p><p> </p><p>He shifts slightly, his hands falling lazily onto the arms of the chair. ‘I’ve said all I have to say.’</p><p> </p><p>She stares at him. ‘Just like that?’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>She had not Apparated him home from the hillside, of course not, she had taken him to the accident and emergency entrance of King Arthur’s. He had glanced up at the sign above the door in front of them and then turned to her with such a look of loathing she had shrunk from him. He Disapparated again without a word. She could only assume he had gone where he had originally said he wanted to go and she followed him to Spinner’s End, appearing with a crack at the bottom of the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>She could see him in the kitchen, downing a large glass of water. He turned and observed her over the rim of the glass; there is something desolate about his gaze, some absence. He went to refill the glass and she moved behind him and gently wrapped her fingers around his upper arm, whispered his name pleadingly. He stilled at her touch, the glass overflowing under the tap, then he twisted from her grasp and moved off across the room, lowering himself into one of the chairs with a guttural groan.</p><p> </p><p>‘How long?’ she asked. She doesn’t sit; her body courses with adrenalin, she doesn’t know <em>what</em> to do with herself.</p><p> </p><p>He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, pulled the chair a little closer to the table. He is buying time but Hermione will wait for his answer. ‘Perhaps… a few months,’ he eventually replied, with an evasive half-shrug. He won’t look at her now.</p><p> </p><p>‘I will presume from that it’s actually much longer.’ She is used to poor historians at work, patients who downplay their symptoms, or don’t properly describe them. She watched as he leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the table, running his hand up and down his glass, staring down into its half-empty contents. He skin is wan but there is still a pinkish tinge to his cheeks from the exertion of climbing the hill; he looks suddenly much older.</p><p> </p><p>‘It’s just a cough,’ he then said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear. ‘It’s the smoking. I’ll stop.’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. ‘Enough,’ she snapped. ‘It’s more than that. Stop lying.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I haven’t lied about anything, I’ve just-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-I swear to God, Severus, if you say one word about omitting facts.’ She glared at him for a moment and then turned her back on him, leaning against the countertop and taking bracing breaths. She heard the scrape of the chair across the floor and turned back. ‘Where are you going?’</p><p> </p><p>‘For a shower,’ he spat, and with that, he strode past her and disappeared up the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>In the present, Hermione looks back through the window, watches a taxi pull up down the road and a young couple get out, staggering to their front door full of drunken laughter and appetite for one another. She feels inexplicably jealous of them. She draws the curtains, blocks out the world so that it is just her and Severus again; normally this would bring her peace, but not tonight.</p><p> </p><p>He had not answered her question, ‘<em>just like that?</em>’ Although, perhaps his silence was answer enough.</p><p> </p><p>‘After everything we’ve been through?’ she asks. ‘You would throw it all away?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Not <em>me</em>,’ came his response.</p><p> </p><p>A mirthless laugh escapes her. She should have expected that he would blame her. After all, she blames herself. She should have asked more questions, should have pressed him on it. Has she not watched for months as he has gasped for breath on steady strolls, has complained of aching muscles after the slightest exercise? Has she not watched and said practically nothing? She has been remiss, pre-occupied. She feels a now familiar sensation, the gush of regret and self-reproach. She had to remind herself that she could help him now, if only he would let her, but it seems he has made his choice.</p><p> </p><p>Could she, in good conscience, leave a sick man?</p><p> </p><p>Should she, out of guilt, stay?</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Back in the kitchen, all those weeks ago, she had expressed a similar sentiment.</p><p> </p><p>When he had come back downstairs after his shower, dressed in his jogging bottoms and an old t-shirt, Hermione thrust one of the pre-packed sandwiches they’d bought for the walk into his hand.</p><p> </p><p>‘Eat,’ she ordered.</p><p> </p><p>He issued her a disparaging look and then dropped back into his seat at the kitchen table and took ravenous bites, washed down with a can of Coke. She finally sat down opposite him, her own sandwich on a plate in front of her, although appetite eluded her; she picked at the crust and watched him devour his food: he looked the same as he had this morning, the same as he had yesterday. How could it be that he was coughing up blood, that his insides were ravaged by poison?</p><p> </p><p>‘I was thinking,’ she ventured, hesitantly. He made a noise whilst chewing a mouthful to indicate he was listening. ‘I could write to Master Healer Tomkins, on the Poisons, Toxins, and Venoms Ward at St. Valentine’s – he used to tutor me. We’ll get you an appointment. Just for an examination. Then we can see what our option are, what potions are available that might help.’</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed. ‘You think I don’t know what potions are available?’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head incredulously. ‘If that’s the case then why, Severus? Why aren’t you taking them?’</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled audibly, looked at her wearily. ‘I just wanted a clean break from the wizarding world. No magical hospitals, no apothecaries, or potions. You know all this already… I may have… underestimated their necessity somewhat and now… well…’ he trailed off with a frown. She suspected he had wanted to say something about his deteriorating condition, about how it made him <em>feel</em>, but couldn’t find the words.</p><p> </p><p>‘You infuriating man,’ Hermione said to him, managing a small smile as she squeezed his hand across the table. He returned neither gesture, just looked at her despondently. ‘You should have told me,’ she continued, more seriously, ‘I would have got the potions for you. I could have helped.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t want you knowing.’</p><p> </p><p>‘After everything you said about <em>me</em> having secrets.’</p><p> </p><p>He withdrew his hand from hers and sat back in his seat, head down, observing her from beneath a deeply furrowed brow. ‘I don’t see why anything has to change… Most days, I’m fine. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you hadn’t made me go today. I told you I didn’t want to.’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head again, feeling her eyes burn with tears. ‘That’s not good enough. <em>Most days</em> is <em>not</em> good enough. And we might not have been having this conversation <em>today</em>, but we would have been having it at some point in the future because this isn’t going to go away on its own.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, I’m not seeing a Healer. They won’t tell me anything I don’t already know.’</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him sharply, ‘and what do you <em>know</em>, Severus?’ she asked. He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again and looked away and she knew then that he thought he was dying. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she pleaded with him. Still no reply. The pace of her breathing quickened and she felt suddenly frantic. ‘Because you’re stubborn? Scared? You think it’s a weakness? What?’ Again, her questions were met with infuriating silence. She nodded slowly and wiped her eyes. ‘It always comes back to the same thing with you: self-flagellation. You can’t let yourself be happy.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t presume things!’ he snapped.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh my God, Severus! I… I can’t talk to you when you’re being like this.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Then just… just go. Go on!’ He stood abruptly as he spoke, the glass he’d been drinking from earlier suddenly in his hand and then launched across the room. It was not aimed at Hermione, but smashed on the lino behind her, causing her to jump up, retreat towards the doorway. She looked from the smashed glass to Severus, saw his face contorted with rage and then in the next moment he looked struck with terror. ‘Now,’ he demanded, ‘<em>go</em>!’</p><p> </p><p>She knows in that moment of aggression he has seen something in himself he does not like, certainly something he does not want her to bear witness to; he is ashamed and angry with himself.</p><p> </p><p>She obeyed his command and left.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Indeed, she had left Spinner’s End, that afternoon, disconsolate and confused. She had stood outside the front door of Number 7, in the rain, not wanting to be alone, but not sure where to turn. She went to Grimmauld Place, in the end. She needed someone to talk to and could only think of Ginny’s parting gesture that day she had told her friends about her and Severus: ‘<em>I’m here for you, no matter what</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You really do love him?’ Ginny asked, as though only just believing it, when Hermione concluded her tale.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione looked up through her tears and nodded.</p><p> </p><p>‘And if <em>he</em> really loved you,’ Harry then interjected from across the room, stood with his arms folded, ‘don’t you think he would do this one thing for you?’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Now, three weeks later, her friend’s words ringing in her ears, she takes three furious strides towards Severus in the darkened living room. ‘Why won’t you fight for us?’ she demands.</p><p> </p><p>‘It seems to me you have already made up your mind,’ he replies, his voice silky.</p><p> </p><p>In that moment, she loved him and hated him in equal measure; it is such a thin, tenuous, line between the two.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>After that first argument, when he had smashed the glass, it had taken her two days to return to Spinner’s End. Having texted and called to no avail in the interim, she <em>needed</em> to know he was alright. She had that same feeling she had had after witnessing his convulsions, years ago on the hospital wing; that it would happen again, perhaps worse, if she wasn’t looking over him; not that she thought her mere presence would help, but rather that the fates would misalign if she wasn’t more fastidious in her observations this time around.</p><p> </p><p>Severus was still dressed in the same clothes as before, face unshaven, when he answered the door. She brushed past him before he had chance to slam it closed in her face. His attitude had only provoked Hermione to action; she does not like things she does not understand and if he is not willing to explain, she will undertake her own research.</p><p> </p><p>‘Blood coagulation potions, three different types of anti-venom, daily dittany elixirs, crushed bezoar capsules.’ She dropped a heavy file, thick with leaves of parchment, onto the kitchen table with a dull thud. ‘The list goes on, and that’s not to mention whatever else you’re going to need to undo the damage you’ve caused to your insides by not taking these things for the past however many years.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What?’ he murmured. He seemed half-asleep, perhaps intoxicated.</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s your medical file,’ she answered. ‘I requested it from where it was being held at St. Valentine’s. That’s all the medication you should be on.’</p><p> </p><p>He frowned. ‘That seems like a monumental breach of patient confidentiality. Don’t you sign an oath?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes. An oath which also stipulates that a Healer’s primary responsibility, above all else, is the wellbeing and welfare of their patients,’ she says. She is defiant.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not your patient.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You may recall that the last time you <em>were</em> my patient, you credited me with saving your life.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What kind of life is it having to rely on all those potions.’</p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him then and her anger dissipates, replaced by hurt. ‘It is a life with <em>me</em>… it is a <em>future</em> with me. I had presumed that would mean something to you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course it does! Just give it rest, would you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No. I will not! You need help.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t want help.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Severus… I love you too much to watch you do this to yourself.’</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>For three weeks they had argued, for three weeks she had begged him, for three weeks he had remained immutable.</p><p> </p><p>She felt depleted but she had meant those words; she could not – would not - sit idly by and watch him slowly weaken, perhaps slowly die. Her words were essentially an ultimatum, and though she hated herself for giving it to him, he could not ask her to go on as before, to ignore this, pretend everything was alright.</p><p> </p><p>She moved back towards the window, pushed her thumb into her teeth again. The room feels cold despite the heat from the orange bars burning within the electric fire.</p><p> </p><p>‘Then…’ she hesitates, can hardly bring herself to say it, can hardly believe the words she is about to speak: ‘Then this is it. This is how it ends.’</p><p> </p><p>He sits forwards then, his face coming into the lamplight. She wonders, fleetingly, whether she has finally done enough, has convinced him, made it real enough for him. But his expression, she now sees, is almost bored, like he’s been expecting this all along, like it was inevitable, and in some ways, that is what hurts the most.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded in defeat and with a heavy heart moved towards the living room door, out into the hallway, and through the front door of number 7 Spinner’s End for very the last time.</p><p> </p><p>He did not say anything, did not try to stop her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N Just to be clear, this is not the end.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Oral Tradition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Severus observed himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. He barely recognised himself; he was looking at a dead man, a ghost. He ran his fingers up the line of buttons at his front, the fabric thick and soft to touch. The cloak felt cumbersome, the trousers tight. He had once liked the familiar restrictiveness of his teaching robes, the stiffness held him together, kept him alert, kept people at bay. Protected him. He exhaled audibly, forcing himself to relax his posture. Now he feels slightly ridiculous in them, like a caricature. He knew what the students used to say, even some of the staff in the early days: “<em>greasy bat of the dungeons</em>.” Well, let them think it.</p><p> </p><p>He would also let Minerva think she had convinced him to go today, let her have that little victory if it pleased her. She didn’t need to know his true intentions, his pathetic desperation to see Hermione, even if just from across the room. He is filled with self-loathing but if he has any reservations about the prospect of spying and stalking, he conceals them well, conceals them beneath the billowing black robes he wears, robes which had always kept his secrets before.</p><p> </p><p>Number 7 was kept in a state of perpetual semi-darkness these days, a weak grey light bleeding from behind closed curtains and casting each room in gloomy shades. Severus moved downstairs to the kitchen; the sink was piled high with unwashed dishes, take-away cartons overflowing from the bin. He had regressed to a diet of convenience foods; the first taste of a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle after so long had made him retch, though he quickly got used to it again. Indeed, he had spent the last two months in a state of utter despondency, was usually to be found with a whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, wallowing in self-pity.</p><p> </p><p>He flicked the kettle on, a cup of tea could always help to settle frayed nerves, and, while it boiled, re-read his invitation to the memorial. It was pinned to the fridge with a Manchester City magnet Hermione had bought him for his birthday once, stained and crumpled from being discarded in the bin and then retrieved again and again since he received it some weeks ago. A fierce debate has raged within him since then; if he goes to the memorial he will feel like an imposter, underserving and unwelcome, but he isn’t sure any of that matters, he does not need recognition or approval, he just needs to see <em>her</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He drank his tea in the deafening silence – save the beat of <em>everybody knows </em>in his ears - and profound solitude of his little kitchen, and then Apparated to somewhere just beyond the boundary of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione had felt Severus’s eyes on her before she had seen him; he must have slid into The Great Hall amongst the shadows. She’d felt a tingling along her forearms and neck, her hairs standing on end, and suddenly the sounds of the conversations echoing about the room seemed to come from far away. She had glanced over her shoulder to see him leant against the back wall; she knew him well enough to recognise his nonchalance was affected. Their eyes met, momentarily, his features impassive as ever, and then she had forced herself to look away; she could not summon the generosity of spirit to afford him her time and attention. He does not deserve it. Not today.</p><p> </p><p>She had stayed in a room at The Three Broomsticks last night; had wanted to wake at dawn, breathe the untainted air of the Scottish hills at sunrise. But she had found herself walking through the village streets, and up the winding drive to the castle, under a veil of grey sky, a fine rain soaking through her cloak.</p><p>As she went, under her breath, she whispered her story; she had rehearsed it until she knew it perfectly, every word and intonation well-practiced, though, still, her nerves jangled. Still no words seemed to do it justice.</p><p> </p><p>‘Just remember,’ McGonagall had said to her, when she arrived at the winged-boar flanked gates, muttering under her breath, ‘it is <em>your</em> story. Don’t overthink it and it will flow.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione would stand on a stage today, alongside Harry and Ron, and they would share for the first time, beyond the three of them, the truth of what had happened that year, now a decade ago, when they had hunted for horcruxes. Others would share their stories too; Ginny, Neville, and Luna would talk about being at school that year, the work they did as Dumbledore’s Army; Molly and Arthur would talk about the Order, and about The Phoenix Foundation they had established in the years afterwards to support victims of the war and their families, for they understood grief better than most; and Minerva, and some of the other Hogwarts staff, would talk about the final battle, the role the school itself had played.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione was acutely aware of the missing thread, the story that was interwoven through everyone else’s but would not be shared today: Severus’s story.</p><p> </p><p>She had not thought he would come, and yet, there he was.</p><p> </p><p>‘Do you want me to tell him to get lost?’ Ron said, glaring across the room over Hermione’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ Hermione sighed, ‘leave him be.’</p><p> </p><p>There was some relief in seeing him again, not least to know that he was well. For the past two months, since she had walked out of Spinner’s End, every spare moment, rare as they were, when her mind was not pre-occupied with work, her parents, or preparing for the memorial, she had found herself troubled by thoughts of Severus: was he healthy? Was he ill? Was he even alive? She supposed she would have heard if something that bad had happened, but also, who was there to check on him? Such thoughts only left her feeling guilty, a guilt which felt deserved.</p><p> </p><p>She rubbed her arms to get rid of the goose bumps that had risen across her skin and shook her shoulders slightly as if to brush Severus’s gaze off her. She needs no distractions.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall takes to the stage then, clapping her hands to silence the crowds. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she pronounces, ‘if you would like to take your seats.’</p><p> </p><p>The four house tables have gone and instead a number of round tables take their place; Hermione slides into a seat between Harry and Ron - Ginny, Talia, Neville, Hannah, Luna, and Rolf share the table with them. Ron kisses Talia, sat on his other side, audibly.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall continues: ‘I would like to thank you all for coming. This day, ten years ago, these castle walls bore witness to one of the deadliest battles in wizarding history, and the defeat of The Dark Lord, Voldemort. Today is about sharing the experiences of those who fought that war, to pass from one generation to the next, and so on for eternity. We do this, yes, to understand what they went through so that we could live freer lives, but also to learn, in the hope that history will never repeat itself.’* She paused to acknowledge an applause from the crowd. ‘And after we have heard these stories, we will remember those who we lost, those who made the ultimate sacrifice; a cenotaph has been erected in the eastern garden, we will go there, all of us together, and pay our respects.’ There is a muttering of approval amongst the crowd and McGonagall nods. ‘We have a duty to them,’ she continued, ‘to uphold the values they died for and make manifest the hope they had in their hearts. It is with this in mind that I welcome our first speaker to the stage, Mr. Harry Potter.’</p><p> </p><p>The crowd erupts like it might for some pop star or Hollywood actor; Harry looks mightily uncomfortable as he makes his way up the steps and to the centre of the stage. McGonagall greets him with a handshake and then retreats to one of the round tables, looking more optimistic than Hermione has seen her look for a long time.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione finds Harry, as always, self-deprecating and bashful, but he is also eloquent and emphatic; it’s almost like she is hearing his story for the first time, the way he tells it, with the benefit of time and perspective. He doesn’t just tell of what happened, but also how it <em>felt</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘… but this story is not mine alone,’ he says, eventually, ‘I cannot tell it properly without the two people who were by my side throughout, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione feels her hands tremble as she pushes her notes into a pocket and stands. She walked onto the stage, Ron at her side, to rapturous applause, her stomach writhing. She looked out at the audience. A sea of black-robed students fill the tables at the front, looking up at the three of them perhaps a little star-struck; the children remind her why they’re doing this, why they fought in the first place. Beyond them sit Ministry officials, members of the Wizengamot, the media, and others. Then she looks to her left and right and sees Harry and Ron there, and when it’s the three of them, she knows she is safe and feels buoyed.</p><p> </p><p>They pick up the tale, tell of the horcrux hunt, though now they tell it together, weaving together their individual narratives. As they talk, Hermione feels the same tingling sensation across her skin that she had felt earlier and knows that Severus is watching her closely; she avoids his gaze until Harry tells of the doe, how it led him to Gryffindor’s sword. He does not mention who produced that Patronus, but now, Hermione can’t help herself from casting across the audience for Severus; he sits at a table at the back of the room, a strange, unreadable expression on his features, somewhere between sadness and admiration. She refuses to look at him again, ignoring the urge when they talk about visiting Lily and James’s grave, skirt over the circumstances of Nagini’s attack on him, and his memories.</p><p> </p><p>It is almost as if he has been erased and it seems wholly unfair, even if it is what he would prefer.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, it is harder to listen to others’ stories than it is to tell their own. Hermione doesn’t know if she has ever sat down with Ginny, Neville or Luna and asked them about that final year at Hogwarts, and suddenly she realises how remiss she has been, how selfish. They don’t say much of Severus either, though he is present in his absence, the unnamed orchestrator of their torture that year.</p><p> </p><p>When the final stories are told, McGonagall leads them around the front of the castle. The fine rain, which seems to hang in the air rather than fall, is relentless as the crowd huddles in the eastern garden. The garden itself would normally bloom with colour and scent this time of year, but today, everything is dank and dreary.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall leads a minute’s silence, and as she does Hermione takes in the cenotaph; it consists of a central stone column etched with the words:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>In Memorium</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Battle of Hogwarts</em>
</p><p>
  <em>1998</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Then, like wings on either side, stone scrolls bearing the names of the dead. It was confronting, to see them like this, line after line, a wall of names; some of them children Hermione had never known, some of them friends. Just so, so many.</p><p> </p><p>When the silence ended, Hermione sees Andromeda showing Teddy his parents’ names, sees her kiss her fingers and then press them against the engraving of ‘Nymphadora “Tonks” Lupin’; Teddy watches her and then does the same. Arthur holds Molly, who sobs loud and unashamedly for their son; they are surrounded by their other children. Harry and Ginny hold hands, their knuckles white, looking solemn; Talia rests her head against Ron’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione muses about how it is those who are left behind who suffer most greatly. She is glad that her friends have people to love and comfort them; she is filled with sorrow for the fact that she has no one. She wonders how it would feel to have Severus beside her; he might not place his arm around her the way Neville had Hannah, or kiss the top of her head the way Rolf kissed Luna, but still, she might draw some strength from his presence.</p><p> </p><p>Against her better judgement, she looks around the gathering for a sight of his dark form, but he is not there.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus had thought it might be strange to return to the castle. It is Janus-faced, still all warmth and invitation on the one hand, all disappointment and betrayal on the other. A façade, a folly. These rare constants in an ever-changing world are sometimes rendered anachronistic, and that is how Hogwarts feels to him now, out of place. He reminds himself it is mere bricks and mortar and endeavours to think of it only as such from now on; he owes it no more than that.</p><p> </p><p>As he had suspected he would, he also feels out of place here. He wants to leave and doesn’t really know why he hasn’t yet, except for that Hermione had caught his eye, twice now, and it felt like something unspoken had passed between them on both occasions. He can see her across the hall, laughing with her friends; the sound holds him in his seat. He is repulsed by his own behaviour, just sat here, watching her, scared of the parallels to how he used to watch Lily across this same room, but it does not stop him.</p><p> </p><p>He had listened to everyone’s stories, but he had not really heard them. Their words had been punishing, and now his soul feels bruised. Nothing he had done had been enough; there is still insurmountable suffering and he feels the burden of it all.</p><p> </p><p>Currently, he sits at one of the tables near the back of the room, picking at a plate of beige buffet food Minerva had presented him with. Just as he would have hoped, people have had the good sense to leave him alone today, if they had even noticed him at all, and though he has caught them staring from time to time – and has known what they are thinking – they have, thankfully, not deigned to speak to him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are these seats taken?’ a boy then asks, just as Severus is having that thought. The child had approached the table from behind, carrying two plates of food. He is followed by a witch whose drawn face and crooked posture belies her relative youth. Severus only recognises her because he would know those eyes anywhere, they are almost the same as Bellatrix’s, her sister’s.</p><p> </p><p>Severus shakes his head in response to the boy’s question and the two intruders take a seat. The realisation of who the woman is leads to inevitable conclusions as to who the boy is and Severus doesn’t feel comfortable in his presence. He makes to stand, thinks he’ll go and have a look at the cenotaph after all, for he had avoided it earlier, when the boy speaks again: ‘I know you,’ he said, smiling at Severus. For his part, Severus issued him one of his more derisive expressions. ‘You’re Severus Snape.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You know nothing,’ Severus grumbles.</p><p> </p><p>‘I do. My Uncle Harry has told me all about you.’</p><p> </p><p><em>Of course he has</em>, Severus thinks.</p><p> </p><p>‘He said you were a spy and you tricked Voldemort. Is it true?’</p><p> </p><p>Severus shrugged. ‘I suppose.’</p><p> </p><p>‘So, you’re a hero too. Why didn’t you do a story today then?’</p><p> </p><p>Severus frowned. No one had asked him that; Minerva and Hermione had asked him if he would, but when he had declined they had not questioned why. He wondered now what the reason was. Any answers he came up with seemed like mere pretence.</p><p> </p><p>‘Were you too nervous?’ the boy then asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Severus replied, and he supposed it was true, in a way.</p><p> </p><p>‘I had to do a presentation in front of my class at school and I was very nervous but Nana gave me some tips. I could share them with you and then maybe next time, you could tell your story.’</p><p> </p><p>A small smile escaped Severus at that, but it falters when he sees how Andromeda is watching his exchange with her grandson. Her gaze is sceptical; it tells him that she remembers him from school, there was perhaps a short overlap there, and she remembers him sniffing around Lucius and his cronies, remembers him losing house points for hexing Potter and Black in the corridors, remembers catching him when she was a prefect, in the forbidden section of the library, looking for books on dark magic,</p><p> </p><p>And just like that he is reminded that he is no hero, no master spy, and will never be remembered as such. He could tell his story a thousand times and no one would really care; his story is putrid. No one will ever let him forget it and they shouldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>He stands. The boy protests.</p><p> </p><p>‘No one wants to hear my story,’ Severus snaps at him.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em>I</em> do,’ the boy insists, but Severus barely hears him as he is already on his way outside into the rain.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>‘Well, well, well,’ a sickly, eerily familiar, voice sounds from behind Hermione. She turns to see Rita Skeeter, wearing some fuchsia abomination, making her way through the crowds towards her. ‘If it isn’t Hermione Granger one pillar of The Golden Trio, The Terrific Trifecta, The… Tremendous Triad… I don’t know, I’m still working on it…’ she trailed off, giggling like a child. She manoeuvres herself between Hermione and the students she’d been talking to, separates them so Hermione is isolated. ‘I’ve been trying to catch you all day,’ she continued, ignoring Hermione’s indignant expression. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to avoid me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Funny that,’ Hermione said, in bored tones. ‘Can I help you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m here on behalf of <em>The Prophet</em>, but I’m wanting to take a slightly different angle to usual-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Oh, are you going to tell the truth for once?’ Hermione asked, glibly. She issued Skeeter a challenging smirk.</p><p> </p><p>Skeeter made a quiet tutting noise, for Hermione’s ears only; the effect was quite intimidating. She came close, rather into Hermione’s personal space. ‘Now, now…’ she hissed, ‘if it’s truth you’re after, perhaps you’ll be happy to put to bed some rumours I’ve been hearing lately?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘And what would they be?’ she asked, although she suspected she knew the answer.</p><p> </p><p>‘Well,’ Skeeter began, an irritating smirk dancing about her bright red lips, ‘a little birdie told me that you had formed a, err… <em>close companionship</em>, shall we say, with a certain ex-Death Eater. I’m not sure how that fits in with your little miss perfect image... or how a world that has come to see Hermione Granger as one of their heroes, their saviors, would take the news…’ As she concluded she feigned an expression of mild concern.</p><p> </p><p>‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Hermione replied, though her voice was shaky and she couldn’t help but glance in the direction she had last seen Severus, over in a corner talking to Teddy and Andromeda; thankfully, he had disappeared.</p><p> </p><p>‘Is that so? My source is <em>quite</em> reliable.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I can assure you.’</p><p> </p><p>Skeeter now smiled in a patronising fashion. ‘Very well, very well,’ she continued, ‘I shan’t push you, sometimes slow and steady wins the race.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Was that all?’</p><p> </p><p>‘That was all,’ Skeeter replied. Hermione forced a pleasant smile, brushing past the woman, keen to get away, then, ‘oh,’ Skeeter continued, as if just remembering something else.</p><p> </p><p>With reluctance, Hermione turned to face her again. ‘Yes?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I meant to ask: how are you parents?’ There is something threatening about Skeeter’s tone now, her grin has evaporated, and she suddenly looks at Hermione with an expression of purist loathing. It is a look which says, ‘<em>you should never have crossed me</em>,’ a look which says, ‘<em>this is revenge</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione’s insides turned to ice. She has been caught off guard and knows she is too slow in schooling her features; Skeeter will have caught her expression of surprise, of horror, and will use it to her advantage. Hermione cannot bring herself to respond. The room suddenly seems very close and she cannot breathe. She edges backwards away from Skeeter, who looks disgustingly satisfied all of a sudden, and flees from The Great Hall.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus brushed his fingers over the etched names of the cenotaph; hundreds of names he recognised as children he had once taught, children he had made miserable in his classroom. Children he had failed to protect. That is what this is a memorial of; his failings. It crosses his mind that his name might have been written up there, had things transpired as they should have, had he died as he should have. But he would never belong here, amongst them.</p><p> </p><p>He had come outside to escape the din of The Great Hall, but somehow the noise out here is worse, so he makes his way back to the castle, stopping by a side entrance and leaning against the cold, wet stone wall with a sigh. He lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling with closed eyes.</p><p> </p><p>When he opened them again a figure caught his attention, moving swiftly away from the castle, and even though it was robed and hooded, he recognised it to be Hermione and knew immediately that she was crying. It was almost instinctive the way he followed, driven by some innate desire to comfort her. There was a time not so long ago when he could have taken her in his arms, held her until her tears dried, convinced that whatever it was that was bothering her didn’t matter so long as they were together. It was only as he got close to where she had stopped, on the shore of The Black Lake, that he realised she may not want comfort from <em>him</em> any longer.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione?’ he said, hoarsely, announcing himself hesitantly.</p><p> </p><p>A part of him regretted approaching and wanted to flee but he remained, stood a little behind her. She turned her head to acknowledge him, her hood falling back and the wind picking up her hair, blowing curls gently across her face. He could make out her profile: tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hello, Severus,’ she replied, at length. She looked him up and down; ‘I can’t get used to seeing you in those robes again,’ she added, offering him a weak smile.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… they’re quite uncomfortable,’ he replied, rolling his shoulders and looking out across the water.</p><p> </p><p>She followed his gaze. The scene before them was all in shades of grey; the water dark and foreboding, the distant hills grim and hazy behind an ethereal fog, the sky heavy and turbulent with rain clouds. The giant squid sat in the middle of the lake, preening itself. Such bleak surroundings feel apt, somehow.</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t expect you to come today,’ she continued, speaking quietly.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged and a silence descends, but he can’t take his eyes off her. <em>God she’s beautiful</em>. Her hair looks different, cropped shorter than usual and parted to one side, mature and businesslike. He recalls the feel of those curls when he runs his hands through her hair and has to stop himself from reaching out to her. Beyond that she appears tired, thinner. He also notices she still wears the jet necklace he bought her for her birthday the other year; she twirls it between her fingers in her agitation. He wills himself to speak but the words won’t come and when the silence is broken, it is by <em>her</em> soft voice.</p><p> </p><p>‘How have you been?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He ignores the undertone of chastisement regarding his health and mutters, ‘oh, you know…’ in response. ‘You?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘you know.’</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled shakily. ‘You’re crying,’ he ventured.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m fine,’ she replied, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, still frowning out over the lake.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right.’ He doesn’t believe a word she’s saying; knows her too well, but he won’t push it. He wants her to keep talking to him, has been deprived of the cadence of her voice for too long. ‘I heard your story before. You… it was courageous, you speaking like that.’</p><p> </p><p>She sniffed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Hardly. You know that was only half the story. I didn’t have the <em>courage</em> to mention my parents, did I?’</p><p> </p><p>‘No one needs to know about that.’</p><p> </p><p>She had sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘I think Skeeter knows something.’</p><p> </p><p>‘How?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know but I think she does… just something she said earlier…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ignore her. She’s trying to wind you up.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah… maybe.’ She stops then and looks at him, like she’s forgotten who it is she’s talking to; it’s because it’s so easy, them talking.</p><p> </p><p>‘How are they? Your parents?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Same old, good days and bad days,’ she replied. ‘Mon asks after you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah? I miss her pies.’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione finally laughed at that, a sound that made Severus’s inside quiver. ‘And how’s <em>your</em> mum?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, err… well, she passed away the other week.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh my God, Severus. I’m so sorry!’ she said, earnestly. She finally turned to him properly, though she didn’t come any closer.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged again by way of response, digging his hands into the pockets of his frock coat and hunching into himself out of self-preservation. He thought back to how he’d sat in the crematorium, alone save for two care staff from Willow Court, listening to the funeral celebrant read some generic passages because Severus hadn’t known what his mum would like, hadn’t known anything about her, really. He swallowed his guilt. ‘It’s fine,’ he then said, but by Hermione’s expression he assumed <em>she</em> knew <em>he</em> was lying now. ‘Hermione…’ he then began, beseechingly. He took a few tentative steps towards her, his boots crunching on the rocks underfoot, but he was stopped from going further when she suddenly spoke again.</p><p> </p><p>She had looked up at him and, even at this distance, he could see he eyes were filled again with unspilled tears. ‘I’m pregnant, Severus,’ she said. She spoke in barely more than a whisper, like the words had escaped her by accident, and they seemed to drift to him on the breeze.</p><p> </p><p>He stilled; his breaths came in shallow rasps and even his heart seemed to stop, for a time, before it began pounding painfully in his chest. He’d heard the words she’d spoken but they made no sense. ‘What?’ he asked anyway.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p> </p><p>He backed away from her, shaking his head. ‘You fucking idiot!’ he spat, through gritted teeth, looking about himself frantically.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you talking to <em>me</em>?’ she replied sharply, turning and closing the distance between them in five smooth strides. With her ruddy cheeks and the way the wind made her hair fly she looked quite terrifying.</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ he said, his voice feeble. He cleared his throat and then added, more affirmatively, ‘I was talking to myself.’ And it was the truth; he had always been so diligent – using either condoms or a contraceptive charm – apart from all those times he hadn’t, of course, lost in the moment or so aroused he couldn’t see straight. He had known that he and Hermione couldn’t last forever, and, when the time came for them to part, would not have wanted something that would tie them together so incontrovertibly, something that trapped them so. What a fucking idiot, indeed. ‘I… I…’ he trailed off. What could he possibly say? ‘Sorry,’ he decided on.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Sorry,’ he repeated, ‘sorry it’s happened.’</p><p> </p><p>She stared at him in silence. ‘Right,’ she then said, sniffing and folding her arms. She appeared to bite back more tears. ‘Right.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What do you want me to say?’</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. ‘If you don’t know then I don’t want you to say anything.’ She gave him another moment, waiting with an expectant look, and when he didn’t speak she sighed angrily before striding past him, heading back up the hill back to the castle.</p><p> </p><p>‘No… wait, hang on a minute,’ he demanded. Finally coming to his senses somewhat, he reached out to her shoulder to stop her. She moved as if his touch burned her, snatching her body away from his grip. She carried on walking as he struggled behind her. ‘How long?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Three months. It’s definitely <em>yours</em> if that’s what you’re asking!’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her aghast, though she wouldn’t have seen, still pacing ahead of him. ‘I wasn’t… Three months? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’</p><p> </p><p>She scoffed. ‘I <em>tried</em>. You didn’t want to know.’</p><p> </p><p>He casts his mind back to a day perhaps six weeks ago, when she had knocked timidly, and unexpectedly, on the door of number 7. He had opened it just a few inches wide, had glared at her through the gap.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hi,’ she’d said, her voice small. She’d smiled at him, he recalled, and he also recalled the twinge of regret that had shot through his heart at the sight of it.</p><p> </p><p>‘What do you want?’ he’d grunted.</p><p> </p><p>Her smile had faltered, then she’d looked just incredibly sad. ‘Erm… I…-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-I’ve got your stuff,’ he’d said, cutting her off when she stammered over her response. He had closed the door, picked up the cardboard box of her belongings, full of things he’d been finding around the house for weeks, each another stark reminder of what he’d lost, then he’d opened the door again and thrust the box into her arms. ‘You can’t keep coming around here,’ he’d told her. It was too hard, back then, seeing her; still too raw.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right…’ She’d looked up at him, and with hindsight, perhaps it was clear there was something else she had wanted to say, but she had not. ‘Right,’ she’d repeated, and, with that, she had gone.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh… Shit,’ he muttered, back on the sprawling lawn in front of the castle.</p><p> </p><p>‘Indeed,’ Hermione shot back at him. ‘Look, you can be as involved – or as uninvolved – as you like.’</p><p> </p><p>He stopped and stared after her for a moment; he couldn’t be a father, the mere idea was ludicrous. ‘Wait,’ he then said, moving again. ‘You’re being unfair.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing about this is <em>fair</em>,’ she threw over her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>‘Wait… I <em>just</em> found out… you’ve had weeks to process this… please, will you slow down,’ he pants; he can feel his chest tightening, his legs protesting. Hermione ignores him, continues up towards the castle doors.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione, please,’ he beseeches, finally catching up with her and managing to get in front and block her way, forcing her to confront him. He winces as his lungs burn and takes a moment to compose himself. ‘Talk to me.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think you’ve made your feelings quite clear.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Have I? I don’t think I’ve really said anything at all.’</p><p> </p><p>She sighed and with closed eyes hung her head in contemplation. ‘Sometimes it’s what you don’t say,’ she replied, looking back up at him. ‘This is not how I would have chosen to do this.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus frowned. ‘No...’</p><p> </p><p>‘But you’re right. We should talk. Properly, and not now-’</p><p> </p><p>She is cut off by another voice, calling across the damp lawn: ‘-Oi! Leave her alone!’</p><p> </p><p>Severus spins around to see Ronald Weasley’s lanky form striding across the grass towards him; the way his limbs appear to move independently of his body, his legs more quickly than the rest of him, is almost comical, is anything but intimidating. Severus might have laughed if he hadn’t seen the younger wizard reach into his robes and withdraw his wand. He did not point it at Severus, instead holding it as his side as he bore down on him, but the act reminded Severus how vulnerable he was, back in this world, without his own wand.</p><p> </p><p>‘I said, leave her alone,’ the red head repeated, coming to a halt a short distance from where Severus and Hermione stood.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, just fuck off!’ Severus growled.</p><p> </p><p>There is a small gasp from the crowd that has filed out of the main doors behind Weasley, members of his family, Potter, Minerva, curious students, and more curious members of the media and Ministry.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ron, it’s fine, we’re just talking,’ Hermione said, shooting Severus a stern look.</p><p> </p><p>‘She doesn’t need the stress,’ Weasley continued, eyeing Severus with utter contempt.</p><p> </p><p>Severus rounded back on Hermione sharply at that. ‘Does <em>he</em> know?’ he snarled. She looked at him apologetically, which is answer enough. ‘Did they <em>all</em> find out before me?’ he added, gesturing vaguely to the rest of her friends, stood across the grass.</p><p> </p><p>‘Please, Severus…’ she appealed to him. ‘Let’s go somewhere…we can talk now…’</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head in angry disbelief and then turned and started back up towards the entrance of the castle. ‘Out of the way, Weasley,’ he groused as he came level with the younger wizard. Weasley was a good deal taller than him, certainly had a more youthful energy about him, and he remains unmoving, refusing to allow Severus past. ‘I said move!’ Severus snapped.</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re going to the wrong way,’ Weasley replied, ‘the exit is that way.’ And with that he shoved Severus backwards, in the direction of the school gates.</p><p> </p><p>It was a firm, sharp push which almost unbalanced him but, salvaging his dignity, Severus managed to stay on his feet. ‘That was your first mistake, Weasley,’ he snarled in return, ‘now don’t be an idiot all your life. I’ll go where I want.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And that’s the mistake <em>you</em> always make, Snape; you think you can go where you want, do what you want, treat people however you want!’ Weasley’s ears have gone red in his fury.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ron, please, leave it,’ a young witch calls from behind him, Severus thinks he might recognise her as having once been his student; something Murray.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why don’t you listen to your wife, do as she says,’ Severus then suggests.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione speaks again then, pleading with the both of them. ‘Won’t you <em>both</em> please listen to us! Stop this-’</p><p> </p><p>‘-Oh, shut up!’ Severus snapped at her without even sparing her a glance.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t talk to her like that!’ Weasley yelled. He swallows his anxiety, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He raises his wand.</p><p> </p><p>‘Get out of my fucking way!’ Severus orders, striding forwards again.</p><p> </p><p>Then things happened very quickly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ron!’ Hermione shouted. ‘For God’s sake, he’s unarmed.’</p><p> </p><p>But her words were lost in the ensuing confusion. Ron flicked his wand and cried a callous <em>rictumsempra</em>, aimed, perhaps unintentionally, but who could say, directly at Severus’s face. Severus felt his feet being swept from under him, felt them fly uncontrollably over his head. His shoulder collided with something hard as he was flung backwards through the air, landing with a decided thud on the ground some distance from where he had been stood.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment he was dazed, only vaguely conscious of the commotion around him, the cacophony of multiple people talking, nay shouting, all at once. He was then aware of a creeping warmth down his front and when he opened his eyes it was to find a stream of blood flowing from his nose, staining the front of his robes. He brought his hand to his face in attempt to stem it, but it ran through his fingers, fast and thick.</p><p> </p><p>Cursing, he stumbled to his feet, feeling disorientated and unsteady. Minerva is taking charge of things, sending the students back inside the castle. He sees Potter hauling Weasley away from the scene. To his left, a portion of the crowd that had gathered – Ginevra, Longbottom, Lovegood and some more of Hermione’s friends - have surged forwards and congregated around something; they talk in frantic voices: ‘<em>Can you stand?... Up you get then… Let’s get you up to the hospital wing… I really must insist… you should, Hermione… let Madam Pomfrey check you over.</em>’</p><p> </p><p>He takes more notice then and sees, through the throng of people, that it is Hermione at their centre. She stands now, supported by Ginevra. He realises it is her he must have caught with his shoulder as he flew through the air and feels cold with the dawning implication of this; though he does not yet recognise it as such, it is, perhaps, the first inkling that he innately cares for the child, unreal as it still seems.</p><p> </p><p>He feels a sudden wave of protectiveness and wants to be with her, wants to be the one who supports her through the castle, hold her hand while Poppy attends to her. He doesn’t feel like anyone can do as good a job as he could, but she is being bundled away by her friends and really he is in no fit state, his nose still bleeding profusely.</p><p> </p><p>‘You too, Severus,’ a familiar voice then says. ‘Let’s get Poppy to have a look at that nose.’ It is Minerva; she is beside him, with a firm hand around his wrist, tugging him forwards. She wears a sad expression, perhaps a little disappointed, and he withdrew in his embarrassment but followed her nonetheless because it means going in the same direction Hermione went in.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Severus sat on the edge of the metal-framed bed in the hospital wing, his feet dangling slightly. It crossed his mind that it was the same bed he had spent all those months in, convalescing after the war. The same bed Hermione had used to sit beside, reading to him. He stares disconsolately at the seat she would have sat in.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy had, unceremoniously, packed his nose with cotton wool, bewildered as to why her spells wouldn’t stop the flow of blood, then, with a severe look, had obeyed his demands that she tend to Hermione first.</p><p> </p><p>Now, through a narrow gap in the curtains around his bed, and another in those around Hermione’s, he could catch glimpses of them across the room; Poppy seemed to be running a series of diagnostic tests, but their voices were low and he couldn’t make out what was being said. Eventually, the medi-witch completed her ministrations and after hugging Hermione, returned to Severus.</p><p> </p><p>‘Head back,’ she demanded, two fingers on his chin to gently guide him so she can better examine the damage. ‘Your nose is broken. This is going to hurt.’ With no further preamble she pointed her wand at his face and with a silent incantation and an uncomfortable crunching sound, his nose cracks back into shape. He suppresses the urge to call out in pain, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes closed.</p><p> </p><p>When he opens them again he sees Potter and Ginevra are with Hermione now, chatting as she pulls her robes straight and pats her curls down, trying to tame them, a pointless exercise that under different circumstances would have made him smile.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy is saying something, though he doesn’t really hear. ‘…Yeah…’ he murmurs, dismissively.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione is on her feet, heading in the direction of his bed, flanked by her friends, on her way out of the hospital wing.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, Poppy… can you just…’ he trails off and he’s on his feet, ignoring Poppy’s protestations. ‘Hermione,’ he called after her, and she turned back to him, her friends in sync, protective. ‘C-Can we talk?’ he asked, unsure of himself, but still managing to eye her companions disdainfully. ‘Perhaps <em>without</em> your bodyguards?’</p><p> </p><p>Hermione issued him a withering look then told her friends to go ahead without her, she’d catch them up. With suspicious glares issued in Severus’s direction, they conceded and retreated down the central aisle between the beds, disappearing through the doors at the end of the room. With them gone, Severus feels like he can breathe a little easier.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy then looked between them with a frown. ‘I’ll give you two a moment,’ she said, moving off to her little office.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione and Severus stepped back beyond the curtains around his bed; something in Hermione’s expression suggested she was having the same thoughts about their shared history in this enclosed space.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you going to tell Poppy why your nose won’t stop bleeding?’ she asked, bluntly.</p><p> </p><p>He ignored her question. ‘Are you OK? Is… <em>everything</em> OK?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘Are you?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Will be… look…’ He swallowed, then groaned. ‘I’m sorry… about before. I didn’t know what to say, still don’t, really…’</p><p> </p><p>She managed a small smile. ‘Me either, I shouldn’t have told you like that.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I should have listened when you tried to tell me before.’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded. ‘Mm… it’s been a rough few months.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah.’ Finally something they could agree on.</p><p> </p><p>‘Look…’ she began, tentatively. ‘I have an appointment at King Arthur’s maternity ward next week. Come to the farm on Friday at ten – if you want – and we’ll go together.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p> </p><p>He gave a small nod. ‘OK.’</p><p> </p><p>‘OK.’ And with that she turned to leave, adding, as she went, ‘tell Poppy she’ll need to cauterise your nose. The venom build-up won’t let your platelets clot otherwise.’</p><p> </p><p>She looked back at him and smiled again, perhaps a sad smile this time, but a smile he was just about able to reciprocate, and then she pulled the curtains around his bed closed and was gone.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Some time later, when Poppy had finally managed to treat his nosebleed, he is fastening the buttons of his frock coat and pulling his robes around his shoulders when the doors at the end of the hospital wing open again and Minerva enters. She had on her tartan dressing gown and her bun was looser than it had been earlier in the day. Her eyes look a little pink, like she might have been crying, and the thought of that is almost terrifying to him; she is stoic, a warrior.</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as she neared his bed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing,’ she niffed, shaking her head. ‘I’m just being a silly old woman.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I… I’m sorry,’ he stammers, ‘I know how important today was to you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It was important for all of us,’ she replied, looking at him pointedly. ‘But never mind.’</p><p> </p><p>‘People won’t remember a stupid argument, they’ll remember the message behind it all.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ she replied, smilingly, a comforting hand back on his shoulder. He looks down at it, absorbing its warmth.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hermione told me today that she’s pregnant.’ He doesn’t know why he tells her, perhaps it’s the hand on his shoulder, perhaps he just needs to tell <em>someone</em> and there is no one else.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh, Severus, that’s…’ she hesitates.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘I don’t know either.’</p><p> </p><p>‘What will you do?’</p><p> </p><p>He opens his mouth to respond. Closes it again. And when he looks back up at her his panic is right on the surface.</p><p> </p><p>Minerva chuckles and bring her hand to face. ‘I wish you believed you were worthy of happiness,’ she says, looking right into his eyes. He remembers her saying it once before, atop the astronomy tower, and he believes it no more now than he did then.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Obviously, oral tradition has been around for millennia and has its flaws, however, the idea to have a memorial based around this concept comes from a school trip I went on probably almost twenty years ago where I had the privilege of meeting a lady who had survived the Nazi death camps. I studied World War Two for years, from books and teachers, but nothing has stuck with me quite like hearing that lady's story first hand.</p><p>A/N A particularly plot heavy chapter - not my favourite type - but it is setting us up for many major plot points in the future of this story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Blossom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cherry blossom swirled before him, like snowfall, the air filled with its sweet fragrance. It is the first day of the year the sun has had any real fierceness to it, making standing on the stormy shores of The Black Lake last week seem like an age ago. As Severus winds up the dirt track to Withy Copse Farm he is aware of all these signs of spring blooming; chaffinches playing together, darting in and out of the hedgerow up ahead; the trees beribboned with bold, emerald leaves; and the melodious sound of birdsong from dawn until dusk, all set against a backdrop of pure blue skies.</p><p> </p><p>Normally, he would be enthralled by these small wonders of nature, but today they are merely irksome. Perhaps because their sublimity is so at odds with his inner turmoil.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks of Hermione swollen with child – <em>his</em> child – and feels such a consuming sense of adoration he is almost overwhelmed by it; he walks the fine line between protectiveness and possessiveness. Then he thinks of her saying ‘nothing about this is <em>fair</em>,’ the way she had practically spat it at him, and wonders if she – <em>they</em> - wouldn’t be better off without him. He tries to imagine what it would be like to hold a child in his arms, the weight of it, it’s tiny head in the crook of his elbow. He considers a future where he teaches a child to forage, the way his mum had taught him, or to fly or to brew, explore its own interests, whatever they might be. But in these scenes the child is faceless and as easily as the images form in his mind, they are extinguished, snatched away. He remembers, then, when he was a boy and would wander Cokeworth watching other families, thinking ‘what if?’ He realises this is his chance to be a part of something real, to discover the answer to that question, and then he is reminded of the depth of regret Hermione had looked at him with when she said: ‘this is not how I would have chosen to do this.’</p><p> </p><p>This is the vicious cycle of thoughts that has assaulted him endlessly for the past week, the same thoughts he is having as he pushes open the little gate onto the garden he planted last year, observing, with a grimace, that it provides a more befitting atmosphere for his dour mood; it is overgrown with weeds, the flowers withered and mostly dead, just at the moment they should have been coming to ripeness. He swatted a hovering bee away unconcernedly and moved down the narrow gravel path, sighing at the waste.</p><p> </p><p>Reaching the front door, he knocked before his nerve abandoned him.</p><p> </p><p>It was opened almost immediately, like maybe Hermione had been watching him come up the track: ‘you came,’ she whispered, like maybe she hadn’t believed he would.</p><p> </p><p>Severus ignored the tightening in his chest at the sight of her. Her hair was up in that messy bun - the one that means she is past caring - a few disobedient curls falling across her face. She still had that tired, drawn look about her she’d had when he’d last seen her, her eyes wet, like she’s about to cry or has only recently stopped.</p><p> </p><p>She gestured him inside and they stood alone in the narrow entrance, pushed so close Severus could smell her shampoo, patchouli and vanilla. Her eyes rose to Severus’s face, and she frowned as she took in the two deep purple, half-crescent bruises under his eyes from where his nose had been broken. Then she cocked her head to one side and, with a small smile, she reached up with her hand. He flinched, almost violently, and she hesitated. Puzzled, she withdrew. ‘You have blossom…’ she then said, gesturing vaguely to her own head instead.</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh.’ He shook his head and two petals fell to the floor. They both bent simultaneously to pick them up, her head bumping his chest. He righted himself and let her collect them, discard them back outside. He mourned the loss of their synchronicity.</p><p> </p><p>She issued him another brief smile. ‘Come through,’ she urged.</p><p> </p><p>The farm looked to be reverting to its previous state of disorder the way nature reclaims forgotten buildings. The intensity of the patterns is almost shocking after a time away and Severus felt momentarily dazed as she led him into the living room. Crookshanks was laid across the back of the settee in front of the window; he looked up disinterestedly at Severus as he entered, then yawned and put his head back down. It seemed <em>he</em> had quite gone off Severus too. Then, there was the strange noise coming from upstairs; the blare of a wounded animals. Severus looked up to the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>‘Dell,’ Hermione said, by way of explanation. ‘He does that a lot these days, but he’s fine. Mon’s with him.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus isn’t sure who she is trying to convince as he perches stiffly on the edge of the other settee. Hermione dropped into the armchair across the room. As she leant back, her t-shirt rode up at the bottom to reveal a sliver of her ever so slightly rounded stomach; he stared for a moment, then looked away as she tugged self-consciously at the hem.</p><p> </p><p>‘Have you been smoking?’ she then asked, sniffing the air.</p><p> </p><p>He’d had one to try and calm himself before Apparating to the farm. ‘Not really any of your concern anymore, is it?’ he grumbled, not sure why he was being so short with her.</p><p> </p><p>She looked back at him and sighed sadly. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is…’ She paused, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Only, I can smell it and… God, I’ve been so ill, Severus.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Ill?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I didn’t know it could be like this,’ she explained, with a pained expression. ‘Morning sickness and just… exhaustion. I’ve not been able to work, could barely get out of bed some days… I’m much better now, but strong smells sometimes set me off.’</p><p> </p><p>‘How’ve you managed?’ he asked, looking up again at the direction the wailing had come from.</p><p> </p><p>She glanced at the ceiling too, then back at Severus. ‘It’s why I had to tell my friends,’ she replied. ‘Well, Ginny guessed before I did to be honest, but they’ve been helping a little, just checking in on us, preparing meals and tidying round. I’m… reluctant to rely on anyone too much though.’</p><p> </p><p>It was not lost on Severus that these were all the things <em>he</em> might have helped her with, in another life. At least, he <em>presumed</em> that’s what fathers did for the mothers of their children if they were so incapacitated, though he had few points of reference. He must temper the blistering resentment he feels towards her for leaving, for robbing him of these opportunities. He knows she is an undeserving target of his indignation. Knows he has no one to blame but himself.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, realising he had been staring into the middle distance, deep in thought. ‘Sorry,’ he replied, at length, ‘do I have to time to go home and change? I can, if you want…’</p><p> </p><p>‘No,’ she replied, chewing her bottom lip. ‘<em>I’m</em> sorry. That was rude of me.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. ‘You always did hate the smell,’ he stated, lamely.</p><p> </p><p>It was then, whilst he was trying to look anywhere but at Hermione, that his eyes fell on a copy of <em>The Daily Prophet</em> which lay folded on the coffee table before him. It was remiss of him not to have noticed it before, not least because, upon closer inspection he now realised the photograph adorning the front page was of himself. It was a little grainy, as if taken from quite a distance, but the dark figure stood gesticulating wildly at Hermione by The Black Lake was, unmistakably, him.</p><p> </p><p>He snatched the paper up and unfolded it to read the words: ‘Secret Tryst or Lovers’ Tiff?’ printed in large, bold letters above the image. His eyes skimmed over the words below: ‘<em>Is this the moment sacrosanct member of The Golden Trio, Hermione Granger, was caught in the throes of an impassioned exchange with her rumoured lover, ex-Death Eater and convicted murderer, Severus Snape? Rita Skeeter provides the full scoop, page thirteen</em>.’</p><p> </p><p>Severus flicked through the newspaper with such ferocity the pages were almost ripped from it. He halted at the sight of more photographs on page thirteen: more images of them stood by the lake, them again as they’d moved up the hill towards the castle, and then a few taken at closer range, Severus in midair then with his bloodied nose, Potter holding Weasley back, Hermione with her hand pressed to her stomach in a clear gesture of maternal protection. He read the article in disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>Skeeter questioned Hermione’s morality, her mental stability, her capabilities as a Healer, all alongside trivial criticisms of the robes she’d chosen to wear to the memorial, the way she’d done her hair. There was speculation about a baby and a cursory mention of her parents, something which perhaps alluded to them having suffered some grim fate, or maybe didn’t, depending on how you read it. It was enough to rattle Severus’s nerves though; maybe Hermione had been right that Skeeter knew more than she ought.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fuck,’ he said, in conclusion, for what else was there to say. He let the paper fall back onto the table and got to his feet; he needed something to do with the restless energy that coursed through him, stoked by his fury, but there was nowhere to go. He strode to the front window, glaring out at the green fields in the bright sunshine, thinking the day had some audacity being so tranquil. He narrowed his eyes in thought and chewed the inside of his bottom lip, his jaw set, until he exhaled a long breath, hanging his head, and half-turning back to Hermione. Still bristling with anger, he met her steady gaze.</p><p> </p><p>She had sat forwards in the chair and was watching him, hugging her knees and tapping her feet like she was nervous. ‘Skeeter’s got it in for me,’ she said, shakily. She seemed angry with herself, he noted. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into it. The irony is not lost on me. That… that you never wanted people to know about us in the first place and now it’s over it’s plastered all over <em>The Prophet</em>, broadcast to the entirety of wizarding Britain… all because I couldn’t let things alone.’</p><p> </p><p>He suddenly didn’t care about any of that. ‘She’s horrible about you,’ he said.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes… well…’</p><p> </p><p>He raised a questioning eyebrow and Hermione rolled her eyes is resignation, flopping back in the chair and folding her arms over her chest. She told him about her twisted history with Skeeter. ‘What?’ she said as she finished, ‘what are you <em>smirking</em> at?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘you’re just <em>very</em> Slytherin sometimes.’</p><p> </p><p>She scoffed and then smiled at what she undoubtedly recognised as a compliment. His lip twitched in return but then, with a jolt, he <em>remembered</em> and had to avert his gaze back out of the window before his stoic façade faltered.</p><p> </p><p>‘Skeeter will get bored when she finds there is nothing else to write about <em>us</em>,’ he bit out.</p><p> </p><p>There was a moment’s silence and then, ‘hopefully,’ he heard her reply in a small voice that didn’t sound hopeful at all.</p><p> </p><p>He continued to watch the trees dancing in the wind, unsure they could avoid the inevitable any longer. He scowled, still with his back to her. ‘Anyway,’ he began again, ‘this, err, appointment…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Oh. Yes, we should get going soon or we’ll miss the train. Apparating and the Floo make my stomach churn, so I hope you don’t mind the train.’</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. <em>The last time they had caught the train was to Whitby</em>, he recalled. He wondered whether simple things like that would always remind him of something he had done with her. If this was the nostalgia she had so exalted, he wanted no part of it; it was torturous. He pushed his hands in his pockets and finally turned back to her properly, awaiting further details.</p><p> </p><p>‘The appointment is just routine. They’ll run some bloods to make sure the baby’s healthy and then do a scan.’ As she spoke her hand fell absently onto her stomach and he found his eyes drawn back to it despite himself. It was still unfathomable to him that a child – <em>his</em> child – grew within.</p><p> </p><p>‘We’ll, err, <em>see</em> the baby?’ he asked, feeling out of his depth.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘and they can do another spell to tell us the sex… if we want to know.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And do we?’</p><p> </p><p>She stroked up and down her abdomen with her forefinger. ‘I don’t know. A surprise might be nice.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I think I’ve had enough of surprises,’ Severus muttered with a grimace.</p><p> </p><p>They took the shortcut to the village, behind the barn and through the fields. It was a path they had trodden together many times before, but today it felt they did it almost as strangers.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>Hermione couldn’t make it out; her eyes darted across the projection, trying desperately to decipher the wavy monochrome lines. This felt like her first failing, proof that she could not do this. But, then, there it was, accompanied by the soft <em>wush-wush</em> of a heartbeat. She wondered, for a moment, whether she had just so badly wanted to see it that her mind had merely conjured it. But no, it was clearer now, a head, torso, little arms and legs. She glanced down at her stomach; to think that there was a life blossoming in there was the strangest notion. It hadn’t felt real until this moment; between the relentless sickness and her vicious heartache Hermione had felt so physically and emotionally rotten for the past three months that the truth of it, the fact that a baby, uninvited as it might be, grew within her, and all that that entailed, had been far from the forefront of her mind.</p><p> </p><p>Severus sat beside her looking miserable. He watched the projection from beneath a deeply furrowed brow. Hermione wanted to shake him; did he not realise what he was looking at? But she would give him time, just as she always had and regardless of the fact that the last time she had let him reveal his secrets at his own pace, it had almost cost him his life.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, unsure how he would welcome it, she reached out and brushed her fingertips against his hand. His dark eye flitted from the projection to her and he was too distracted to hide his torment of disbelief and panic; it was a rare thing to see his emotions displayed so close to the surface and it unnerved her. She felt the now familiar tug of responsibility, to undertake the role she had inadvertently adopted over the past few years; it was an exhausting and seemingly fruitless endeavour trying to convince him he was deserving of anything other than punishment and pain but she <em>needed</em> to convince him he was worthy of this.</p><p> </p><p>She issued him an as reassuring a smile as she could muster, which was not reciprocated.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, after a series of tests and examinations that had been considerably less fun than the scan, but which had determined all was well with mother and baby, they stood on the pavement outside King Arthur’s in another awkward silence.</p><p> </p><p>‘Here,’ Hermione said, tearing along a serration between two of the sonograms they had been provided with and offering one to him. ‘You can put it on the fridge or something.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Thanks,’ he murmured, barely looking at it before sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans. She almost reached out to smooth the crease at his brow, the way she used to, but stopped herself just in time.</p><p> </p><p>They started down the street and she didn’t know whether she was following him or he was following her but it felt natural and so she allowed it to happen. By the entrance to the abbey, through the town centre, past the quirky little shops, then down a series of rather non-descript residential streets they came to a National Trust sign which read ‘tor this way.’ Hermione let her gaze rise to the summit of the hill beyond it and then, keen to avoid scenes like they’d had on Mam Tor, tried to nudge Severus in the opposite direction.</p><p> </p><p>He grumbled something she didn’t catch and strode past her defiantly, hopping over a nearby style in one fluid motion. She watched his figure disappear up the footpath, hands in his pockets, and then set off after him. The path was steep but even, and she kept a slow pace behind him, ever watchful.</p><p> </p><p>He was out of breath by the time they reached the top, but trying desperately to disguise it. He moved away from her and dropped down to sit on the grass. She gave him some time, pretending to busy herself with an inspection of St. Michael’s Tower, for she couldn’t trust herself not to harangue him about his health if she went to speak to him when he was in that state.</p><p> </p><p>When she observed from a distance that he appeared to have recovered, she went to sit beside him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Maybe we can have that talk now,’ she suggested, looking out over the view; flat green fields, as far as the eye could see, beneath a dome of azure sky. ‘We have all our best talks sat looking out over beautiful landscapes,’ she added, thinking of the barley fields, when she’d first told him she loved him, and the murmurations, when he had first intimated that the feeling was mutual. Such thoughts only made her regret saying anything at all.</p><p> </p><p>Severus sat cross-legged, tearing up blades of grass and discarding them in a pile by his knee. He sighed.</p><p> </p><p>‘Why did you come today?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know.’</p><p> </p><p>She wiped unspilled tears from her eyes and watched a cloud pass over the sun, casting them in shadow. ‘I’m scared, Severus,’ she admitted, whisperingly.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he said, still refusing to look at her, ‘me too.’</p><p> </p><p>She nodded. ‘You asked me once, if I wanted children, and then there was that time I was late and thought I might be… but we never talked about it properly. Do <em>you</em> want kids?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I never dared to hope,’ he replied, bitterly. ‘Maybe sometimes, in a superficial way, when I was very young, like it was inevitable; I’d grow up, get married, have kids. But… well, circumstances…’</p><p> </p><p>‘And now?’</p><p> </p><p>‘It doesn’t matter. It’s happening.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It still matters how you feel, just because you have no control over it,’ she replied, realising as she said it that, for him, it probably hadn’t often mattered how he felt, he must just find a way to cope, to adapt.</p><p> </p><p>‘How do <em>you</em> feel about it?’ he asked.</p><p> </p><p>She issued a half-shrug. ‘We’re told we should feel elated, jubilant, overjoyed... all those types of things and I don’t, which I think must make me a terrible moth- person. So, mainly I feel confused and guilty.’</p><p> </p><p>‘You’re not a terrible person,’ he mumbled.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm… well… the only thing I know for sure, Severus, especially after today, is that I <em>love</em> this baby, this little piece of you and me and… and so I <em>am</em> going to do this… with or without you.’</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her sharply at that.</p><p> </p><p>‘I had rather hoped,’ she continued, ‘that your coming today might mean you wanted to be a part it thought?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I do… I mean, I want to try… though… I have no idea how,’ he said at length. She felt slight relief, though it was timid and tenuous, like the lightest breeze might dispel it. Then he spoke again: ‘You said this is not how you would have chosen to do things… I thought maybe you meant you… I don’t know… regretted it.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Regret? No. But… the timing <em>is</em> despicable!’ she said, managing a small, hollow chuckle. She watched his expression closely and saw the edge of his lip twitch. ‘My research will have to go on hold, already has had to while I’ve been off, and, as you know, time is rather of the essence. I also don’t think there are many people who would <em>choose</em> to have a baby with a man they just… <em>ended</em> their relationship with.’</p><p> </p><p>He grimaced but nodded. ‘No, it does rather complicate things… It’ll be better though, in some ways. I used to <em>wish</em> my parents would split up. I’d rather have had them be apart and happy than together and miserable.’ He looked at her then, something complicated she couldn’t interpret in the bottomless pools of his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are we going to be OK?’ she asked him, in barely more than a whisper but holding his gaze.</p><p> </p><p>He inhaled slowly and shakily. ‘I think we’ll find a way to be, yes.’</p><p> </p><p>That was surprisingly optimistic of him, she thought, uncharacteristically so, but precisely what she had needed to hear. She managed another small smile and he looked back at her still, weary and unsure. She felt his pull, that strange allure he had had since the hospital wing, and she was suddenly aware how close they were, how she could, if she wanted, just press her lips against his. Instead, she pulled away with a quiet gasp.</p><p> </p><p>‘Mm,’ he murmured, laying back on the grass with a sigh, closing his eyes and resting his hands on his stomach. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘when the kid’s of age, I’ll be almost seventy!’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s no age for a wizard,’ she said, but even before the words had left her, the horror lurking beneath them had reared; <em>he’d be almost seventy if he lived that long</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He opened his eyes, seemingly realising where the conversation had meandered back to. He shook his head minutely to signal he wasn’t prepared to discuss it further, not today and Hermione didn’t want to start arguing again; she wanted to change the subject, she wanted to keep him talking about the baby; it made her feel all warm inside.</p><p> </p><p>‘Don’t you think our child – <em>our</em> child, Severus – could be quite incredible?’ she asked.</p><p> </p><p>He propped himself up on his elbows then and frowned back out over the fields, squinting in the last of the sun. The day was edging towards evening, the sky on the horizon the colour of peaches. ‘Obviously,’ he replied.</p><p> </p><p>She giggled, feeling giddy all of a sudden, excited even, if she dared to admit it to herself. ‘Do you think we should have found out the sex?’</p><p> </p><p>‘You said it was a girl.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah, but that’s just a feeling.’</p><p> </p><p>‘It doesn’t matter what it is.’</p><p> </p><p>‘No…’ She checked her watch. ‘The last train is in half an hour… of course, you can just Apparate back home, I can get the train on my own…’</p><p> </p><p>He stood with a groan, his knees cracking. ‘See, I’m old,’ he said, holding out his hand and helping her to her feet. ‘And, no. I’ll see you back.’ Not a question, she noticed, but nodded anyway. They had started to mosey back down the hill when he said, ‘err… I could make you something for the sickness… if you liked?’</p><p> </p><p>‘Would you? I’ve tried things from the apothecary but… well, I’d appreciate it if you would. I have always said you are more than proficient at brewing.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Yeah. I’m sure I’ve still got those stewing pots in the back of the cupboard; probably haven’t been used since… since we used to practice.’</p><p> </p><p>She smiled wistfully. It felt like a lifetime ago; how could the two people who had laughed and fought over steaming pots of memory potions in that little kitchen possibly be the same people who walked stiffly side-by-side today.</p><p> </p><p>‘Thank you,’ she managed, feeling choked.</p><p> </p><p>~oOo~</p><p> </p><p>After dropping Hermione back at the farm, Severus Apparated into the cavernous silence of his kitchen at Spinner’s End. His heart felt swollen and bruised after the emotions of the day and by habit he reached for his pack of Marlboro Lights, though he stopped short of lighting one just yet.</p><p> </p><p>He left a cigarette between his lips and took the sonogram from his back pocket, held it close to his face and tried to pick out the details as the image wriggled and writhed. He ran a thumb over the curve of the tiny spine, up the delicate arm, over the top of the head. He, Severus Snape, had created life, a strange notion for a man so accustomed to death and darkness. Sat looking at that projection in the hospital, he had collided rather abruptly with the reality of the situation and had been rendered quite useless; they were to have a baby, a baby that would need caring for, teaching, guiding.</p><p> </p><p>God help it.</p><p> </p><p>He smiled down at the picture for a moment longer and then affixed it to the fridge with his Manchester City magnet.</p><p> </p><p>He smoked his cigarette in the yard, swearing it would be his last.</p>
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